I 


"VAX.    -^ 


POEMS   OF   THE   GREAT   WAR 


THE  BELGIAN   SCHOLARSHIP   COMMITTEE 
Washington,  D.C. 

The  Aims  of  the  Committee  are  briefly  expressed  as  follows  :  — 

1.  To  give  to  Belgian  scholars,  writers  and  artists 
a  chance  to  resume  their  work. 

2.  To  raise  a  fund  to  assist  in  the  reconstruction 
of  a  new  and  greater  Belgium  in  the  educational  field, 
as  soon  as  the  war  is  over. 

Nevil  Monroe  Hopkins, 

Chairman. 


POEMS 


OF 


THE   GREAT  WAR 


SELECTED    BY 

J.   W.   CUNLIFFE 

PKOFB880R  OF  ENGLISH  AND  ASSOCIATE  DIRECTOR  OF  TIIK 
SCHOOL   OF   JOURNALISM    OF   COLUMBIA    UNI- 
VERSITY IN  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK 


ON   BEHALF    OF    THE    BELGIAN 
SCHOLARSHIP   COMMITTEE 


THE   ]\rACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1916 

All  riyhtJi  renerved 


CoPTBiaHT,  1916, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  November,  1916. 


NorfoooU  }^riss 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwicli  &  Smith  Go. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

The  respousibility  for  the  selection  of  the  poems 
included  in  this  volume  rests  entirely  on  my  shoul- 
ders, though  I  am  pleased  to  acknowledge  the  very 
kind  help  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  of  Mr.  Ed- 
ward C.  Marsh  of  the  Macraillan  Company,  Miss 
Helen  Rex  Keller,  Librarian  of  the  School  of  Jour- 
nalism, and  Professor  A.  H.  Thorndike  of  Colum- 
bia University ;  in  England  of  Mr.  F.  Madan, 
Bodley's  Librarian,  Mr.  G.  W.  Wheeler  and 
Mr.  J.  W.  Smallwood  of  the  Radcliffe  Camera, 
Oxford,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Lady  Scallon,  Mr.  A. 
R.  Waller,  Sir  Adolphus  Ward,  and  Sir  Herbert 
Warren.  While  poetic  merit  has  been,  of  course, 
the  paramount  consideration,  I  have  endeavored 
to  exercise  a  catholic  judgment,  and  to  give  fair 
representation  to  various  schools  of  thought  and 
expression  as  well  as  to  the  various  phases  of  the 
War.  If  undue  prominence  seems  to  be  given  to 
what  may  be  called  its  more  personal  aspects  —  the 
spirit  of  sacrifice  and  devotion  which  inspired  men 
and  women  to  give  tliemselves  and  those  dearest  to 
them  to  a  great  cause  —  I  must  plead  in  excuse 

V 


Vi  PREFACE 


that  during  much  of  the  time  of  the  preparation 

of  this  volume  my  mind  was  full  of  the  memory  of 

my  friend   Lieut. -Col.    G.    H.   Baker  of   the   5th 

Canadian  Mounted  Rifles,  who  fell  in  command  of 

his  battalion  during  the  third  battle  of  Ypres  on 

June  2,  1916. 

J.  W.  CUNLIFFE. 


CLASSIFIED   CONTENTS  AND 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  Belgian  Scholarship  Committee  returns  its  sin- 
cere and  hearty  thanks  to  the  authors  and  publishers 
whose  generosity  has  made  this  volume  possible. 
Details  of  indebtedness  are  given  below,  the  permis- 
sion of  the  owner  of  the  copyright,  whether  for  Great 
Britain  or  for  the  United  States  or  for  both,  having 
been  obtained  in  all  cases  except  one  or  two  where 
difficulties  of  communication  made  the  consent  of  the 
actual  copyright  holders  impossible ;  in  these  cases 
their  authorized  representatives  were  consulted  to 
make  sure  that  they  would  have  no  objection. 


AUSTRALIA 

PAGE 

Sandes,  John  :  AUSTRALIANS  TO  THE  FRONT         .     223 
From  The  Sydney  Daily  Telegraph. 

Strong,  Archibald  T.  :  AUSTRALIA  TO  ENGLAND      .     250 

From  Sonnets  of  the  Empire  (Macmillan  &  Co.). 

vii 


Vlll      CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

CANADA 

PAOB 

Campbell,  Wilfred :  LANGEMARCK        ....      46 

From  The  Ottawa  Evening  Journal. 

Holland,  Norah  M.  :  APRIL  IN  ENGLAND    ...     133 

From  the  University  Magazine  (Montreal). 

McRae,  John :  IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS  .        .        .180 

From  Punch. 

Middleton,  J.  E.  :  OFF  HELIGOLAND   .        .        .        .185 

Pickthall,  Marjorie  L.  C.  :  CANADA  TO  ENGLAND     .     213 
From  the  London  Times. 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  D.  :  TO  SHAKESPEARE,  1916       .    216 

From  A  Book  of  Homage  to  Shakespeare.,  edited  by 
Professor  Israel  GoUancz  (Oxford  University  Press). 

Scott,   (Canon)  F.   G.    (of  the  Canadian  Expeditionary 

Force)  :  REQUIESCANT         .        .        .        .229 
From  the  London  Times. 

"Seranus":   THE  MOTHER 234 

Stead,  Robert  J.  C. :  KITCHENER  OF  KHARTOUM    .    245 
From  the  Calgary  Albertan. 

Watson,  Albert  D. :  MOTHER  OF  NATIONS  .        .    279 

INDIA 

Jung,    (Nawab)    Nizamat   (Judge  of  the  High  Court  of 

Hyderabad)  :  INDIA  TO  ENGLAND     .        .     140 

From  the  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

Tagore,  (Sir)  Rabindranath  :  THE  TRUMPET        .        .    253 
From  the  London  Times. 


COXTEXTS  AXD   ACKXOWLEDCMEXTS      ix 
UNITED  KINGDOM 

PAOK 

WRITTEN  ON  SERVICE  IN  EGYPT    ....        1 

From  The  Poetry  Review. 

Aldington,  Richard :  WAR  YAWP 3 

From  Poetry. 

Alexander,  Eleanor :  A  NEGLECTED  GARDEN    .        .        7 
From  the  London  Times. 

Allsop,  Henry  :  YOUNG  AND  OLD  ....         9 

From  Songs  frovx  a  Dale  in  War  Time  (G.  Bell  «Sb 
Sons,  Ltd.). 

Asquith,    (Lieut.)    Herbert:    THE    FALLEN    SUBAL- 
TERN          10 

From  The  Volunteer  and  Other  Poems  (Sidgwick 
and  Jackson,  Ltd.). 

Begbie,  Harold  :  NEUTRAL  ? 15 

From  Fighting  Lines  and  Various  Reinforcements 
(Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.). 

Binyon,  Laurence :  FOR  THE  FALLEN  ...      21 

From  The  Winnowing  Fan,  Poems  on  the  Great 
War  (Elkin  Mathews  ;  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston, 
U.S.A.). 

Blair,  Wilfrid :  A  BALLAD  OF  DEATHLESS  DONS  .      23 
From  Tis  Simple  Mirth  (Blackwell,  Oxford). 

Bliss,  H.  W.:  "ANY  FRIEND  TO  ANY  FRIEND"      .       28 

From  England,  My  England,  a  War  Anthology, 
edited  by  George  Goodchild  (Jarrold  &  Sons). 

Bourdillon,  F.  W.  :  HERE  :    AND  THERE      ...       30 

From  Christmas  Roses  for  1014  (A.  L.  Hum- 
phreys). 


X       CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

PAGE 

Bridges,  Robert  :  LORD  KITCHENER    ....      31 

From  the  London  Times. 

Brooke,  Rupert :  THE  SOLDIER 38 

From  1914  (^nd  Other  Poems  (Sidgwick  &  Jackson, 
Ltd.)  and  The  Collected  Poems  of  Bupert  Brooke 
(John  Lane  Company,  New  York). 

Burghclere,  Lord  :  AFTERMATH 39 

From  Pro  Patria  et  Bege,  edited  by  Professor  W. 
A.  Knight  (J.  &  J.  Bennett,  Ltd.). 

Chalmers,  Patrick  R. :  GUNS  OF  VERDUN    ...      51 
From  Punch. 

Chartres,  Annie  Vivanti :     THE  BROKEN  ROSE  .        .      52 
From  King  Albert's  Book  (Hodder  &  Stoughton). 

Chesterton,  Gilbert  K.  :  THE  WIFE  OF  FLANDERS    .      54 

From  War  Poems  (Burns  &  Oates)  and  Poems 
(John  Lane  Co.,  New  York). 

Clayton,    (The   Rev.)    Philip    Byard :     THEY     HELD 

THEIR  GROUND 56 

From  Lest  We  Forget,  edited  by  H.  D,  Elliott  (Jar- 
rold  &  Sons). 

Courtney,  W.  L.  :  BY  THE  NORTH  SEA      ...      71 
From  King  Alberts  Book. 

Crewe,  Lord :  A  HARROW  GRAVE  IN  FLANDERS  .      74 
From  The  Harrovian. 

Crow,  Gerald  H.  :    WHEN    THEY   HAVE   MADE  AN 

END 76 

From  Chosen  Poems  (A.  H.  Bullen). 

de  la  Mare,  Walter :  HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE  .        .      76 
From  the  London  Times. 


CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS      XI 

PAGE 

Driukwater,  John  :  THE   DEFENDERS  ....      77 

From    The  "  Country  Life  "  Anthology  of  Verse, 
edited  by  P.  Anderson  Graham. 

Faber,  Geoffrey:  "FOR  THOSE  AT  SEA"  ...      84 
From  Interfloio  (Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.). 

Fagan,  James  Bernard  :  THE  MAN  IN  THE  TRENCH      85 
From  the  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

Falconer,  Agnes  S.  :  TERRITORIALS      ....      87 
From  The  "  Country  Life''''  Anthology  of  Verse. 

Frankau,  (Adjutant)  Gilbert:  HEADQUARTERS  .        .      90 
From  The  Guns  (Chatto  &  Windus)  and  A  Song  of 
the  Guns  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.) 

Freeman,  John  :  THE  RETURN 92 

From  the  Westminster  Gazette. 

Freston,  H.  Rex  :  THE  GIFT 93 

From  The  Quest  of  Truth  (Blackwell,  Oxford). 

Friedlaender,  (Miss)  V.  H.  :  PASSOVER         ...      95 
From  The  "  Country  Life  "  Anthology  of  Verse. 

G.  A.  J.  C.  :  IRELAND 97 

From  the  London  Times. 

Card,  Lillian  :  HER  "  ALLOWANCE  "    ....      99 
From  TTie  "  Country  Life  "  Anthology  of  Verse. 

Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson  :  BETWEEN  THE  LINES  .     100 

From  Battle  (Elkin  Mathews;  The  Macmillan  Co., 
New  York). 

Gilbert,  Bernard  :"  I  HA VE  NO  RING  "        .        .        .110 
From  the  English  Review  and  War  Workers. 


XU     CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

PAGE 

Gillespie,  Violet :  THE  DEAD Ill 

From  Poems  of  1915  (Erskine  Macdonald). 

Goddard,  Gregg  :  THE  AIRMAN 114 

Erom  The  Poetry  Beview. 

Graves,  Alfred  Perceval :  BROTHERS  IN  ARMS  .        .     115 
From  The  Contemporary  Beview. 

Grenfell,  Julian  :  INTO  BATTLE 118 

From  the  London  Times. 

Griffiths,  Nord  :  THE  WYKEHAMIST    .        .        .        .121 
From  The  "  Country  Life''''  Anthology  of  Verse. 

Hamilton,  Cicely :  NON-COMBATANT    .        .        .        .126 
From  the  Westminster  Gazette. 

Hardy,  Thomas:  "MEN  WHO  MARCH  AWAY"         .     126 

From  Satires  of  Circumstance  (Macmillan  and  Co.; 
The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York). 

Harwood,  H.  C.  :   FROM  THE  YOUTH  OF  ALL  NA- 
TIONS         128 

From  Oxford  Poetry  1915  (Black well,  Oxford). 

Hewlett,  Maurice  :  SOLDIER,  SOLDIER         .        .        .131 
From  Gai  Saber :  Tales  and  Songs  (Elkin  Mathews). 

Hussey,    (Lieut.)    Dyneley:    THINGS    THAT    WERE 

YOURS 134 

From  Fleur  de  Lys  (Erskine  Macdonald). 

J.  H.  S.  :  JOAN  OF  FRANCE  TO  AN  ENGLISH  SIS- 
TER    135 

From  the  Oxford  Magazine. 

Jacob,  (Mrs.)  Violet:  THE  TWA  WEELUMS       .        .     136 
From  Country  Life. 


COXTENTS  AND  ACKXOWLEDGMEXTS     Xlll 

PAOB 

Jenkins,  Elinor :  A  LEGEND  OF  YPRES       .        .        .138 
From  Poems  (Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  Ltd.). 

John,   Edmund:   IN  MEMORLAM    (To   Field   Marshal 

Lord  Roberts) 139 

From  TheWindifi  the  Temple  (Erskine  Macdonald). 

Letts,  Winifred  M.  :  THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD  .         .     167 
From  the  Westminster  Gazette. 

Lucas,  E.  V.  :  THE  DEBT 166 

From  The  Sphere. 

Lulham,  Habberton  :  HIS  ONLY  WAY  .        .        .        .169 

From  The  Other  Side  of  Silence  (Simpkin,  Mar- 
shall, Hamilton,  Kent  &  Co.). 

Mackereth,  James  A.  :  A  HYMN  OF  LOYALTY    .        .     172 
From  The  Poetry  Eeview. 

Masefield,  John  :  THE  ISLAND  OF  SKYROS         .        .     175 

From  Good  Friday  and  Other  Poems  (The  Mac- 
niillan  Co.,  New  York). 

Meugens,  (Miss)  M.  G.  :  THE  FLEETS   .        .        .        .181 
From  The  "  Country  Life  "  Anthology  of  Verse. 

Meynell,  Alice  :  SUMMER  IN  ENGLAND,  1914     .        .     183 
From  the  London  Times. 

N.  M.  H.:  A.  K.  S.,  JULY  14,  1915 192 

From  the  Oxford  Magazine. 

Neabit,  E. :  A  SONG  OF  PEACE  AND  HONOR     .         .     193 
From  The  New  Witness. 

Nicklin,  John  A.  :  THE  FISHER  LAD    ....     196 

From  ''And  They  Went  to  the  War''  (Sidgwick  & 
Jackson,  Ltd.). 


XIV    CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

PAGE 

Noyes,  Alfred  :  THE  SEARCHLIGHTS  .        .        .        .197 

From  A  Salute  from  the  Fleet  (Methuen)  and  TTie 
Lord  of  Misrule  (The  Frederick  A,  Stokes  Co.,  New 
York). 

0.  M.  :  MASTER  AND  PUPIL         .         .         .         .         .199 
From  The  Spectator. 

"Observer,  Royal  Flying  Corps"  :  TWO  PICTURES      .     202 
From  Oxford  and  Flanders  (Blackwell). 

Ogilvie,  W.  H. :  CANADIANS 203 

From  The  "  Country  Life'"  Anthology  of  Verse. 

Oswald,  (Major)  Sydney:  THE  DEAD  SOLDIER  .     204 

From  The  Poetry  Review. 

Pain,  Barry :  THE  KAISER  AND  GOD  .        .        .205 

From  the  London  Times. 

Phillips,  Stephen  :  REVENGE  FOR  RHEIMS         .        .     212 

From  Panama  and  Other  Poems  (John  Lane  ;  The 
John  Lane  Co.,  New  York). 

Pope,  Jessie  :  SOCKS 214 

From  Jessie  Pope''s  War  Poems  (Grant  Richards, 
Ltd.). 

Robinson,  A.  Mary  F.  (Madame  Duclaux)  :  BELGIUM 

THE  BAR-LASS 216 

From  the  London  Times. 

Ross,  (Lt.  Col.)  Sir  Ronald  :  SHAKESPEARE,  1916       .    221 
From  A  Book  of  Homage  to  Shakespeare. 

Sandford,  Egbert:  HER  PRAYER  — FOR  HIM      .        .    225 
From  Brookdown  (Erskine  Macdonald). 


CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS     XV 

PAGE 

Seaman,  (Sir)  Owen  :  THE  WAYSIDE  CALVARY        .     230 
From  Made  in  England  (Constable  &  Co.,  Ltd.")- 

ShUlito,  (The  Rev.)  Edward:  A  THANKSGIVING         .     236 
From  Pro  Pat7-ia  et  Rege. 

Sidgwick,  Frank  :"  FORM  FOURS  "       .        .         .         .236 

From  Sojne  Verse,  by  F.  S.  (Sidgwick  &  Jackson, 
Ltd.). 

Sinclair,  May  :  FIELD  AMBULANCE  IN  RETREAT   .     238 
From  King  Albert's  Book. 

Smith,  (The  Rev.)  Isaac  Gregory  :  CLOSE  YOUR  RANKS    240 
From  Pro  Patria  et  Rege. 

Sorley,    Charles    Hamilton  :    ALL    THE    HILLS    AND 

VALES  ALONG 243 

From  Marlborough  and  Other  Poems  (Cambridge 
University  Press). 

Stephens,  James :  THE  SPRING  IN  IRELAND :  1916  .     246 

From  Green  Branches  (The  Macmillau  Co.,  New 
York). 

Stuart,  Andrew  John  (Viscount)  :  SAILOR,  WHAT  OF 

THE  DEBT  WE  OWE  YOU  ?        .         .         .251 
From  the  London  Times. 

Taylor,  Frank  :  ENGLAND'S  DEAD        .         .         .         .256 
From  The  Spectator. 

Thoma.s,  Gilbert:  THE  UNCONQUERED  HOPE    .         .     262 
From  The  Further  Goal  (Erskine  Macdonald). 

Tollemaclie,  (The  Hon. )  Grace  E.  :  SONNET  (Oct.  1, 1014)     264 
From  Lyrics  and  Short  Poems  (Elkin  Mathews). 


XVI     CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

PAGE 

Tripp,  (Lance  Corporal)  D.  Howard  :  AFTERMATH      .    266 
Trom  The  Poetry  Review. 

Tynan,  Katharine :  A  GIRL'S  SONG       .        .        .        .267 
From  Flower  of  Youth  (Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  Ltd.) 

Vickridge,  Alberta :  THE  CONSCRIPT    .        .        .        .274 
From  The  Poetry  Beview. 

Walker,  A.  Stodart :  IN  A  SLUM 276 

From  Verses  of  Consolation  and  Other  Lines  Written 
in  War  Time  (Maclehose  &  Sons,  Glasgow), 

Warren,    (Sir)    Herbert:   ENGLAND  TO  DENMARK, 

August,  1916 278 

From  The  Spectator. 

Watson,  William :  OUR  MEN 281 

From  the  London  Evening  News. 

Watt,   (The  Rev.)  Lauchlan  Maclean  (Chaplain  to  the 

Forces)  :  THE  REAPERS        .         .         .         .283 

From  the  London  Times. 

Williams,  lolo  Aneurin  :  FROM  A  FLEMISH  GRAVE- 
YARD          288 

From  Poems  (Methuen  «S;  Co.,  Ltd.). 

Woods,  (Mrs.)  Margaret  L.  :  THE  FIRST  BATTLE  OF 

YPRES 290 

From  the  Fortnightly  Beview. 

X.  :  KITCHENER 296 

From  the  Sunday  Times. 

Young,    (Lieut.)    Francis   Brett,    R.A.M.C.  :    MARCH- 
ING ON  TANGA 297 

From  the  London  Times. 


COXTENTS  AND   ACKXOWLEDGMENTS    xvii 
UNITED   STATES 

FAOB 

Baker,  Karle  Wilson :  UNSEK  GOTT       .        ,        .        .11 
From  Poetry. 

Ben^t,  WUliam  Rose  :  THE  RED  COUNTRY         .        .      17 
From  Reedy''s  Mirror. 

Bodenheim,  Maxwell :  THE  CAMP  FOLLOWER  .        .      29 
From  Poetry. 

Brody,  Alter:  KARTtSHKIYA-BEROZA       ...      32 
From  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Burnet,  Dana:  THE  RETURN 41 

From  Poems  (Harper  and  Bros.,  New  York  and 
London), 

Burr,  Amelia  Josephine:  KITCHENER'S  MARCH         .      44 
From  The  Outlook. 

Colcord,  Lincoln  :   VISION  OF  WAR  ;   CANTO  I  .       58 

From  Vision  of  War  (The  Macmillan  Co.). 

Corbin,  Alice:  FALLEN 70 

From  Poetry. 

Crawford,  Charlotte  Holmes  :  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  !  .     .      72 
From  Scribner''s  Magazine. 

Driscoll,  Louise  :  THE  METAL  CHECKS       ...      78 
From  Poetry. 

Foulke,  William  Dudley  :   HONOR  TO  FRANCE     .         .       88 
From  77ie  Indianapolis  Star. 

Frank,   (Mrs.)   Florence  Kiper :    THE    JEWISH    CON- 

.SCKII*T 89 

From  TTie  Jew  to  Jesus.,  and  Other  Poems  (Mitchell 
Kennerley). 


XVlll     CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

PAGE 

Giddings,  Franklin  H. :  ULTIMATE  HELL     .        .        .107 
From  The  New  York  Times. 

Glaenzer,  Richard  Butler  :  "  SURE,  IT'S  FUN  1 "  .         .     112 
From  The  Boston  Transcript. 

Hagedorn,  Hermann :  THE  PYRES  .        .        .        .122 

From  JTie  Outlook. 

Kauffman,  Reginald  Wright :   THE  NATIONS'  DAVID     142 
From  the  London  Daily  Express. 

Kaufman,  Herbert :  THE  HELL-GATE  OF  SOISSONS    146 
From   The  Song  of  the   Guns  (T.  Fisher  Unwin, 
London)  and  Little   Old  Belgium  (Henry  Altemus 
Co.,  Philadelphia). 

Kilmer,  Joyce  :  THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED     151 
From  The  New  York  Times. 

Kreymborg,  Alfred  :    OVERHEARD  IN  AN  ASYLUM    155 

From    Others,    an   Anthology   of   the    New  Verse 
(Alfred  Knopf). 

Lindsay,  Vachel :  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT 

MIDNIGHT 159 

From    The    Congo  and   Other  Poems   (The  Mac- 
millan  Co.). 

Lowell,  Amy  :  PATTERNS 161 

From  Some  Imagist  Poets  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.). 

MacKaye,  Percy :  CHRISTMAS,  1915       .        .        .        .171 
From  Poems  and  Plays  (The  Macmillan  Co.). 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee  :  0  GLORIOUS  FRANCE         .        .     177 
From  So7igs  and  Satires  (The  Macmillan  Co.). 


CONTEXTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS     XIX 

PAGB 

Mitchell,  Ruth  Comfort :  HE  WENT  FOR  A  SOLDIER     187 
From  Smart  Set  and  TTie  Night  Court  and  Other 
Verses  (The  Century  Co.). 

Monroe,  Harriet :  ON  THE  PORCH  .        .        .        .190 

From  Poetry. 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston  :  MEN  HAVE  WINGS  AT 

LAST 207 

From  Harvest  Moon  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.). 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington  :  CASSANDRA      .         .         .218 
From  The  Man  against  the  Sky  (The  Macmillan 
Co.). 

Sandburg,  Carl :  STATISTICS 222 

From    Others,   an    Anthology  of   the    New   Verse 
(Alfred  Knopf). 

ScoUard,  Clinton  :  THE  VALE  OF  SHADOWS      .        .     226 

From  The   Vale  of  Shadoios  and   other  Verses  of 
the  Great  War  (Lawrence  J,  Gomme). 

Seeger,    Alan:     I    HAVE    A    RENDEZVOUS     WITH 

DEATH 232 

From  The  North  American  Review. 

Smith,  Marion  C.  :  HEART  OF  ALL  THE  WORLD     .     242 
From  77ie  Nation. 

Swift,   (Mrs.)   Elizabeth  Townsend  :    FROM  AMERICA     262 
From  Pro  Patria  ct  liege. 

Teasdale.  Sara  :  SPRING  IN  WAR  TIME       .        .        .259 
From  Rivera  to  the  Sea  (The  Macmillan  Co.). 


XX  CONTENTS  AND  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Thomas,  Edith  M.:    SAID  ATTILA  THE  HUN  TO  —     260 

From  The   White  Messenger  (Richard  G.  Badger, 
Boston). 

Towne,  Charles  Hanson :  TO  MY  COUNTRY  .        .    266 

From  Today  and  Tomorrow  (George  H.  DoranCo.) 

Untermeyer,  Louis  :  THE  LAUGHERS    ....    269 
From  The  Masses. 

Van  Vorst,  Marie :  THE  AMERICAN  VOLUNTEERS      273 
From  War  Poems  (Gay  &  Hancock,  London). 

Wharton,    (Mrs.)  Edith  :  BELGIUM.     La  Belgique  ne 

Begrette  Bien 285 

From  King  Alberfs  Book. 

Widdemer,  Margaret :  THE  WAKENED  GOD        .        .     286 
From  Poetry. 


POEMS   OF   THE   GREAT   WAR 


POEMS  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 


^YRITTEN  ON  SERVICE  IN  EGYPT  ^ 

Behind  us  in  vermilion  state 

The  sun  fell  to  the  rustling  sea, 

The  grey-green  twilight  came  and  went, 

And  night  involved  my  friend  and  me. 

Now  Eg>T)t  donned  her  fairest  robes 
Of  glimmering  moonshine  cool  and  clear : 
No  more  we  talked,  and  silently 
Made  o'er  the  waste  to  Abu  Qir. 

For,  with  the  twilight,  twilight  dreams 
Had  come  and  borne  our  souls  away, 
Though  still  our  bodies  onward  fared 
Toward  the  palm-trees  and  the  bay. 

And  my  companion  now,  I  think. 
With  brother-artists  once  again 
Was  painting  in  the  atelier, 
Or  down  some  dear  Parisian  lane 

'Wlicn  last  heard  from,  the  author,  who  is  a  British 
officer,  was  on  service  at  Khartoum. 

B  1 


ANONYMOUS 


Was  seeking  with  a  motley  throng 
That  well-remembered  brasserie, 
And  Trilby,  hanging  on  his  arm. 
Was  laughing  at  him  merrily. 

But  I,  ah,  where  was  I  ?    Afar 
I'd  flown  to  that  enchanted  shore. 
Where  o'er  white-flashing  waves  the  wind 
From  Donegal  to  Mullaghmore 
Comes  gallivanting  bold  and  free  — 
God  grant  again  I  there  may  be. 
At  Mullaghmore,  with  Rosalind. 


RICHARD  ALDINGTON 


\YAR  YAWP 

America  ! 

England's  cheeky  kid  brother, 

Who  bloodily  assaulted  your  august  elder 

At  Bunker  Hill  and  similar  places 

{Not  mentioned  in  our  history  books), 

What  can  I  tell  you  of  war  or  of  peace? 

Say,  have  yov  forgotten  1861  f 

Bull  Run,  Gettysburg,  Fredericksburg? 

Your  million  dead? 

Tell  me, 

Was  that  the  greatest  time  of  your  lives 

Or  the  most  disastrous  ? 

Who  knows?    Not  you;  not  I. 

Who  can  tell  the  end  of  this  war? 

And  say,  brother  Jonathan, 

D'you  know  what  ifs  all  about? 

Let  me  ivhisper  you  a  secret  —  we  don't ! 

We  were  all  too  fat  with  peace, 

Or  perhaps  we  didn't  quite  know  how  good  peace  was, 

And  so  here  we  are. 

And  we're  going  to  win.  .  .  . 

It's  fine  to  be  a  soldier, 

To  get  accepted  by  the  recruiting  sergeant, 


RICHARD  ALDINGTON 


Be  trained,  fitted  with  a  uniform  and  a  gun, 

Say  good-bye  to  your  girl. 

And  go  off  to  the  front 

WhistHng,  "  It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary." 

It's  good  to  march  forty  miles  a  day, 

Carrying  ninety-one  pounds  on  your  back, 

To  eat  good  coarse  food,  get  blistered,  tired  out, 

wounded, 
Thirst,  starve,  fight  like  a  devil 
{i.e.,  like  you  an'  me,  Jonathan), 
With  the  Maxims  zip-zipping 
And  the  shrapnel  squealing. 
And  the  howitzers  rumbling  like  the  traffic  In  Picca- 

dilly. 

Civilization  ?  — 

Jonathan,  if  you  could  hear  them 

Whistling   the   Marseillaise   or   Marching  Through 

Georgia, 
You'd  want  to  go  too. 
Twenty  thousand  a  day,  Jonathan ! 
Perhaps  you're  more  civilized  just  now  than  we  are. 
Perhaps    we've    only    forgotten    civilization    for    a 

moment. 
Perhaps  we're  really  fighting  for  peace. 
And  after  all  it  will  be  more  fun  afterwards  — 
More  fun  for  the  poets  and  the  painters  — 
When  the  cheering's  all  over 


RICHARD   ALDINGTON 


And  the  dead  men  buried 

And  the  rest  gone  back  to  their  jobs. 

It'll  be  more  fun  for  them  to  make  their  patterns, 

Their  word-patterns  and  color-patterns. 

And  after  all,  there  is  always  war  and  always  peace, 

Always  the  war  of  the  crowds, 

Always  the  great  peace  of  the  arts. 

Even  now. 

With  the  war  beating  in  great  waves  overhead, 

Beating  and  roaring  like  great  winds  and  mighty 

waters. 
The  sea-gods  still  pattern  the  red  seaweed  fronds. 
Still  chip  the  amber  into  neck-chains 
For  Leucothea  and  Thetis. 
Even  now. 

When  the  Marseillaise  screams  like  a  hurt  woman, 
And  Paris  —  grisette  among  cities  —  trembles  with 

fear, 
Tlie  poets  still  make  their  music 
Which  nobodv  listens  to, 
Which  hardly  anyone  ever  listened  to. 

The  great  crowds  go  by, 

Figliting  over  each  other's  bodies  in  peace-time, 

Figliting  over  each  other's  bodies  in  war-time. 

Something  of  the  strife  comes  to  them 

In  their  little,  high  rock-citadel  of  art, 


6  RICHARD  ALDINGTON 

Where   they   hammer   their    dreams   in   gold    and 

copper, 
Where  they  cut  them  in  pine-wood,  in  Parian  stone, 

in  wax, 
Where  they  sing  them  in  sweet  bizarre  words 
To  the  sound  of  antiquated  shrill  instruments ; 
And  they  are  happy. 

The  little  rock-citadel  of  the  artists 

Is  always  besieged ; 

There,  though  they  have  beauty  and  silence, 

They  have  always  tears  and  hunger  and  despair. 

But  that  little  citadel  has  held  out 

Against  all  the  wars  of  the  world  — 

Like  England,  brother  Jonathan. 

It  will  not  fall  during  the  great  war. 

There  is  always  war  and  always  peace ; 

Always  the  war  of  the  crowds, 

Always  the  great  peace  of  the  arts. 

1914.  —  Richard  Aldington. 

(No.  24,965,  "  E"  Company,  llth  Devons.) 


ELEAXOR   ALEXANDER 


A  NEGLECTED  GARDEN 

Barren  the  garden  lies,  undressed  ; 
Long  weeds  like  serpents  coil  and  squeeze 
Forsaken  loves  of  faithless  bees, 
Boughs  broken,  to  the  ground  are  pressed ; 
Columbines,  heartsease,  picotees 
No  more  greet  evening  from  the  West, 
Nor  lilies  give  their  beauty  to  the  night  — 
\Miere  are  the  roses  of  our  lost  delight  ? 

Deep  rooted,  to  the  sun  they  glow 

In  a  new  world's  eternal  Spring  ; 

Low  at  our  feet  the  tendrils  cling. 

High  as  the  Himalayan  snow 

The  birds  among  their  branches  sing ; 

From  crag  and  strand  and  plain  they  grow, 

France,  utmost  Africa,  the  cold  North  Sea, 

Mesopotamia  and  Gallipoli. 

Let  the  neglected  garden  lie  ! 
There  is  no  need  for  English  flowers. 
These,  by  a  right  divine,  are  ours. 
These  bloom  forever  under  every  sky. 
Droop  in  no  drought,  thirst  for  no  showers, 


8  ELEANOR  ALEXANDER 

These  by  no  frosts  of  Autumn  die. 
Immortal  loveliness  for  the  bleak  years, 
Fed  with  our  heart's  blood,  watered  with  our  tears. 

—  Eleanor  Alexander. 


HEXRY  ALLSOPP  9 


YOUNG  AND  OLD 

Young.     What  makes  the  dale  so  strange,  my  dear? 

What  makes  the  dale  so  strange  ? 
Old.  The  men  have  gone  from  the  dale,  my  dear. 

And  that  makes  all  the  change. 

Young.     The  lanes  and  glens  are  still  at  night. 
No  laughter  or  songs  I  hear. 

Old.  Our  lover-lads  have  marched  to  the  fight 

And  maidens  are  lonely,  my  dear. 

Young.     The  kine  are  slow  to  come  to  the  call 
That  once  were  all  so  quick. 

Old.         They  miss  the  voice  known  best  of  all. 
Of  John  or  brother  Dick. 

Young.     And  will  the  dale  be  always  strange 
And  dull  and  sad,  my  dear? 

Old.  Ay,  lassie,  we  shall  feel  the  change 

For  many  a  mournful  year. 

—  Henry  Allsopp. 


10  LIEUT.   HERBERT  ASQUITH 


THE  FALLEN  SUBALTERN 

The  starshells  float  above,  the  bayonets  glisten ; 
We  bear  our  fallen  friend  without  a  sound ; 
Below  the  waiting  legions  lie  and  listen 
To  us,  who  march  upon  their  burial-ground. 

Wound  in  the  flag  of  England,  here  we  lay  him ; 
The  guns  will  flash  and  thunder  o'er  the  grave ; 
What  other  winding  sheet  should  now  array  him, 
What  other  music  should  salute  the  brave  ? 

As  goes  the  Sun-god  in  his  chariot  glorious, 
When  all  his  golden  banners  are  unfurled. 
So  goes  the  soldier,  fallen  but  victorious, 
And  leaves  behind  a  twilight  in  the  world. 

And  those  who  come  this  way  in  days  hereafter 
Will  know  that  here  a  boy  for  England  fell, 
Who  looked  at  danger  with  the  eyes  of  laughter. 
And  on  the  charge  his  days  were  ended  well. 

One  last  salute ;  the  bayonets  clash  and  glisten ; 
With  arms  reversed  we  go  without  a  sound  : 
One  more  has  joined  the  men  who  lie  and  listen 
To  us,  who  march  upon  their  burial-ground. 

—  Herbert  Asquith. 


1915. 


KARLE   WILSON  BAKER  11 


UNSER  GOTT 

They  held  a  great  prayer-service  in  Berlin, 

And  augured  German  triumph  from  some  words 

Said  to  be  spoken  by  the  Jewish  God 

To  Gideon,  which  signified  that  He 

Was  staunchly  partial  to  the  Israelites. 

The  aisles  were  thronged ;  and  in  the  royal  box 

(I  had  it  from  a  tourist  who  was  there. 

Clutching  her  passport,  anxious,  like  the  rest), 

There  sat  the  Kaiser,  looking  "very  sad." 

And  then  they  sang ;  she  said  it  shook  the  heart. 

The  women  sobbed ;  tears  salted  bearded  lips 

Unheeded  ;   and  my  friend  looked  back  and  saw 

A  young  girl  crumple  in  her  mother's  arms. 

They  carried  out  a  score  of  them,  she  said. 

While   German   hearts,   through  bursting   German 

throats 
Poured  out,  Ein  Feste  Burg  1st  Unser  Gott  ! 

(^'ea,  "  Unser  Gott  I    Our  strength  is  Unser  Gott ! 
Not  that  light-minded  Bon  Dieu  of  France  !  ") 

I  think  we  all  have  made  our  God  too  small. 
There  was  a  young  man,  a  good  while  ago, 


12  KARLE   WILSON  BAKER 

Who  taught  that  doctrine  .  .  .  but  they  murdered 

him 
Because  he  wished  to  share  the  Jewish  God 
With  other  folk. 

They  are  long-hved,  these  fierce 
Old  hating  Gods  of  nations ;  but  at  last 
There  surely  will  be  spilled  enough  of  blood 
To  drown  them  all !     The  deeps  of  sea  and  air. 
Of  old  the  seat  of  gods,  no  more  are  safe, 
For  mines  and  monoplanes.     The  Germans,  now, 
Can  surely  find  and  rout  the  God  of  France 
With  Zeppelins,  or  some  slim  mother's  son 
Of  Paris,  or  of  Tours,  or  Brittany, 
Can  drop  a  bomb  into  the  Feste  Burg, 
And,  having  crushed  the  source  of  German  strength, 
Die  happy  in  his  blazing  monoplane. 

Sad  jesting  !    If  there  be  no  God  at  all. 

Save  in  the  heart  of  man,  why,  even  so  — 

Yea,  all  the  more,  —  since  we  must  make  our  God, 

Oh,  let  us  make  Him  large  enough  for  all, 

Or  cease  to  prate  of  Him  !     If  kings  must  fight, 

Let  them  fight  for  their  glory,  openly. 

And  plain  men  for  their  lands  and  for  their  homes, 

And  heady  youths,  who  go  to  see  the  fun. 

Blaspheme  not  God.     True,  maybe  we  might  leave 

The  God  of  Germany  to  some  poor  frau 

Who  cannot  go,  who  can  but  wait  and  mourn. 


KARLE   WILSOX  BAKER  13 

Except  that  she  will  teach  11  im  to  her  sons  — 
A  God  quite  scornful  of  the  Slavic  soul, 
And  much  concerned  to  keep  Alsace-Lorraine. 
They  should  go  godless,  too  —  the  poor,  benumbed 
Crushed,  anguished   women,   till    their  hearts  can 

hold 
A  greater  Comforter ! 

(Yet  it  is  hard 
To  make  Him  big  enough !    For  me,  I  like 
The  English  and  the  Germans  and  the  French, 
The  Russians,  too ;   and  Servians,  I  should  think, 
Might  well  be  very  interesting  to  God. 
But,  do  the  best  I  may,  my  God  is  white, 
And  hardly  takes  a  nigger  seriously 
This  side  of  Africa.     Not  those,  at  least 
Who  steal  my  wood,  and  of  a  summer  night 
Keep  me  awake  with  shouting,  where  they  sit 
With  monkey-like  fidelity  and  glee 
Grinding  through  their  well-oiled  sausage-mill  — 
The  dead  machinery  of  the  white  man's  church  — 
Raw  jiuigle-fervor,  mixed  with  scraps  sucked  dry 
Of  Israel's  old  sublimities  :  not  those. 
And  when  they  threaten  us,  the  Higher  Race, 
Think  you,  which  side  is  God's?     Oh,  let  us  pray 
Lest  blood  yet  spurt  to  wash  that  black  skin  white. 
As  now  it  flows  because  a  German  hates 
A  Cossack,  and  an  Austrian  a  Serb !) 


14  KARLE   WILSON  BAKER 

What  was  it  that  he  said  so  long  ago, 
The  young  man  who  outgrew  the  Jewish  God  — 
"  Not  a  sparrow  falleth  —  ?  "     Ah,  God,  God, 
And  there  shall  fall  a  million  murdered  men ! 

—  Karle  Wilson  Baker. 


HAROLD   BEGBIE  15 


NEUTRAL? 

To  THE   HUIMANITY   OF   AMERICA 

When  men  arc  toUl  in  years  ahead 

How  Fury  forced  the  Belgian  door 
And  ravished  maids,  struck  children  dead, 

And  fired  the  houses  of  the  poor, 
Will  none,  if  still  that  nation  lives 

Our  sires  with  blood  and  sweat  begat, 
Ask  with  the  pride  your  greatness  gives, 

"What  said  America  to  that?" 

Your  children  —  taught  how  Belgium  stood 

In  flames  that  once  were  called  Louvain, 
And  dashing  from  her  eyes  the  blood 

Struck  at  her  foe  and  struck  again  — 
Shall  feel  their  hearts  within  them  burn 

To  know  that  righteous  word  you  said ; 
God  !    When  the  silent  truth  they  learn, 

Surely  your  sons  will  hang  the  head. 

We  ask  not  that  of  all  your  hosts 
One  man,  one  sword  be  sacrificed  : 

Your  cousins  guard  these  ancient  coasts, 
Your  kinsmen  charge  this  Antichrist : 


16  HAROLD  BEGBIE 


But  we  expect  your  mighty  voice 

With  judgment  through  the  world  to  run, 

O  land  of  freedom,  make  your  choice, 
Are  you  for  Belgium  or  the  Hun  ? 

We  ask  not  that  your  shells  should  shriek 

Above  the  flaming  hills  we  climb, 
But  speak,  O  sons  of  Lincoln,  speak ! 

Silence  in  such  an  hour  is  crime. 
Your  children  judge  you  if  you  stand 

In  hearing  of  the  Belgian  cry, 
Not  only  with  the  folded  hand, 

But  with  the  cold,  averted  eye ! 

The  soul  has  got  its  piercing  steel. 

The  heart  its  fierce  consuming  fire, 
Oh,  make  your  voice  like  thunder  peal, 

All  nations  of  the  earth  inspire  ! 
We  know  your  heart  for  Belgium  bleeds. 

But  speak  your  soul,  declare  your  mind. 
Speak  till  the  sin-red  tyrant  heeds 

The  voice  of  God  and  all  mankind. 

—  Harold  Beghie. 


WILLIAM   ROSE   BENET  17 


THE  RED   COUNTRY 

In  the  red  country 

The  sky  flowers 

All  day. 

Strange  mechanical  birds 

With  struts  of  wire  and  glazed  wings 

Cross  the  impassive  sky 

Which  burgeons  ever  and  again 

With  ephemeral  unfolding  flowers, 

W^hite  and  yellow  and  brown, 

That  spread  and  dissolve. 

And  smaller  rapid  droning  birds  go  by, 

And  bright  metallic  bees  whose  sting  is  death. 

Behind  the  hills, 

Behind  the  whispering  woods  whose  leaves  are  fall- 
ing 
Yellow  and  red  to  cover  the  red  clay. 
Misshapen  monsters  squat  with  wide  black  maws 
Gulping  smoke  and  belching  flame. 
From  the  mirk  reed  beds  of  the  age  of  coal, 
Wallowing  out  of  their  sleep  in  the  earlier  slime, 
They  are  resurrected  and  stagger  forth  to  slay  — 
The  prehistoric  Beasts  we  thought  were  dead, 
c 


18  WILLIAM  ROSE  BENiJT 

They  are  blinded  with  long  sleep, 

But  men  with  clever  weapons 

Goad  them  to  fresh  pastures. 

Beside  still  waters 

They  drink  of  blood  and  neigh  a  horrible  laughter, 

And    their    ponderous    tread    shakes  happy  cities 

down, 
And  the  thresh  of  their  flail-like  tails 
Makes  acres  smoulder  and  smoke 
Blackened  of  golden  harvest. 

The  Beasts  are  back, 

And  men,  in  their  spreading  shadow. 

Inhale  the  odor  of  their  nauseous  breath. 

Inebriate  with  it  they  fashion  other  gods 

Than  the  gods  of  day-dream. 

Of  iron  and  steel  are  little  images 

Made  of  the  Beasts. 

And  men  rush  forth  and  fling  themselves  for  ritual 

Before  these  gods,  before  the  lumbering  Beasts,  — 

And  some  make  long  obeisance. 

Umber  and  violet  flowers  of  the  sky, 

The   sun,  like  a  blazing  Mars,  clanks  across  the 

blue 
And  plucks  you,  to  fashion  into  a  nosegay 
To  offer  Venus,  his  old-time  paramour. 
But  now  she  shrinks 


WILLIAM   ROSE  BENET  19 

And  pales 

Like  Cynthia,  her  more  ascetic  sister  .  .  . 

Vulcan  came  to  her  arms  in  the  grimy  garb 

Of  toil,  he  smelt  of  the  forge  and  the  racketing  work- 
shop. 

But  not  of  blood. 

And,  if  she  smells  these  flowers,  they  bubble  ruby 
blood 

That  trickles  between  her  fingers. 

Yet  is  a  dream  flowing  over  the  red  country, 

Yet  is  a  light  growing,  for  all  the  black  furrows  of  the 

red  country  .  .  . 
The  machines  are  foe  or  friend 
As  the  world  desires. 
The  Beasts  shall  sleep  again. 
And  in  that  sleep,  when  the  land  is  twilight-still 
And  men  take  thought  among  the  frozen  waves  of 

the  dead, 
The  Sowers  go  forth  once  more, 
Sowers  of  vision,  sowers  of  the  seed 
Of  peace  or  war. 
Shall  it  be  peace  indeed  ? 

Great  shado\\y  figures  moving  from  hill  to  hill 
Of  tangled  bodies,  with  rhythmic  stride  and  cowled 

averted  head. 
What  do  you  sow  with  hands  funereal  — 
New  savageries  imperial, 


20  WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 

Unthinking  pomps  for  arrogant,  witless  men  ? 
Or  seed  for  the  people  in  strong  democracy  ? 
What  do  you  see 

With  your  secret  eyes,  and  sow  for  us,  that  we  must 
reap  again  ? 

—  William  Rose  Benet. 


LAURENCE  BINYON  21 


FOR  THE  FALLEN 

With  proud  thanksgiving,  a  mother  for  her  children, 
England  mourns  for  her  dead  across  the  sea. 
Hesh  of  her  flesh  they  were,  spirit  of  her  spirit, 
Fallen  in  the  cause  of  the  free. 

Solemn  the  drums  thrill :  Death  august  and  royal 
Sings  sorrow  up  into  immortal  spheres. 
There  is  music  in  the  midst  of  desolation 
And  a  glory  that  shines  upon  our  tears. 

They  went  with  songs  to  the  battle,  they  were  young, 
Straight  of  limb,  true  of  eye,  steady  and  aglow. 
They  were  stanch  to  the  end  against  odds  uncounted. 
They  fell  with  their  faces  to  the  foe. 

They  shall  grow  not  old,  as  we  that  are  left  grow  old  : 
Age  shall  not  weary  them,  nor  the  years  condemn. 
At  the  going  down  of  the  sun  and  in  the  morning 
We  will  remember  them. 

They  mingle  not  with  their  laughing  comrades  again  ; 
Thev  sit  no  more  at  familiar  tal)les  of  home ; 
They  have  no  lot  in  our  labour  of  the  day-time ; 
They  sleep  beyond  England's  foam. 


22  LAURENCE  BIN  YON 

But  where  our  desires  are  and  our  hopes  profound, 

Felt  as  a  well-spring  that  is  hidden  from  sight, 

To  the  innermost  heart  of  their  own  land  they  are 

known 
As  the  stars  are  known  to  the  Night ; 

As  the  stars  that  shall  be  bright  when  we  are  dust, 
Moving  in  marches  upon  the  heavenly  plain ; 
As  the  stars  that  are  starry  in  the  time  of  our  dark- 
ness, 
To  the  end,  to  the  end,  they  remain. 

—  Laurence  Binyon. 


WILFRID   BLAIR  23 


A  BALLAD  OF  DEATHLESS  DOXS 

OR: 
"WHEN    THE    ASSAULT    WAS    INTENDED 
TO  THE  CITY" 

(In  honor  of  an  Oxford  Corps  composed  of  those  con- 
cerning whom  it  may  bo  said  most  truly,  in  Mr.  Belloc's 
words,  that  they  are 

"  Dons  admirable  !  Dons  of  Might !  .  .  . 
Dons  Enghsh,  worthy  of  the  land.") 


The  Regulars  fight  with  all  their  might,  the  Navy 

keeps  the  seas, 
The  Terrier  ^  sniffs  on  bridges  and  cliffs,  wherever  a 

foe  might  sneeze, 
K's  keen  recruit  is  learning  to  shoot,  the  Boy  Scout 

scoutcth  still,  — 
And  after  them  all,  the  dons,  the  dons !  —  the  aged 

dons  do  drill ! 

'  Obsolete  word  signifying  a  mere  voluntary  fighter  unfit 
even  for  adequate  defence  purposes. 


24  WILFRID  BLAIR 

They  know,  they  know  how  well  things  go  on  the 

Merton  fields  of  France ; 
But  the  S.C.R.'s  must  be  fields  of  Mars  —  they  dare 

leave  nought  to  chance ; 
"Louvain  !"  is  the  word,  and  their  souls  are  stirred ; 

for  they  think  of  their  matchless  tuns. 
And  the  ground  shall  be  dusted  ere  Oxford's  crusted 

port  shall  be  broached  by  Huns. 

II 

The  proud  Professors  toe  the  line 

And  turn  to  the  left  for  right  incline. 

Forgot,  forgot  are  their  divers  lores 

In  the  patriot  stress  of  forming  fours. 

Their  mortar-boards  are  a  hive  for  bees 

(Which  they  often  were)  as  they  stand  at  ease. 

Though  every  morn  they  are  wisdom's  fount 

In  matters  which  nowadays  hardly  count. 

Each  afternoon  each  neophyte 

Gets  totally  mixed  between  left  and  right 

(And  a  don  at  maths,  and  a  logic  don 

Turn  each  to  each  and  are  pounced  upon). 

At  the  terrible  voice  of  the  tu  —  the  sergeant 

Their  gills  go  gules  and  their  locks  more  argent. 

And  still  as  the  breath  comes  short,  and  the  knees 

Wobble  in  places,  and  many  a  wheeze 

Is  torn  from  the  depth  of  complaining  turns, 

Down  the  weak  line  the  whisper  comes : 


WILFRID   BLAIR  25 

" Memenio  LouvainI"  —  or  "Rheims,  fie'/ivrjaOe  \" 
"  Oxford  I "  thev  crv,  "  shall  beer-swillers  fleece  thee  ?  " 
And   still  —  though  their  breath  comes  yet  more 

short  — 
They  drill  like  mad  to  preserve  her  port. 

Ill 

See,  in  the  foremost  rank, 

His  brow  with  sudor  dank, 

His  gown  unpipeclayed  in  his  loyal  hurry, 

Private  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  !  — 

Hear,  oh,  hear, 

With  almost  swooning  ear, 

The  sergeant  (Chiron  in  disguise), 

With  how  sarcastic  drawl  he 

Damneth  the  eyes 

Of  Private  Prof.  Eng.  Lit.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  !  — 

See  yet  again 

With  uncontrolled  pleasure 

There,  marking  time  amain 

As  with  such  feet  as  make  a  lyric  measure. 

Like  iEschylus  upon  the  Marathon  day,  — 

Next  to  that  nice  ex-proctor,  — 

Private  and  Poet  Laureate  Dr. 

Bridges,  M.A.  !  — 

And  see  —  but  let  your  eyes  with  pride  be  dim  !  — 

Him  who  professes  Art  and  Archaeology 

Standing  as  rear-rank  man  to  him 

Of  Anthropology. 


26  WILFRID  BLAIR 

(Well  knows  the  latter  how  to  dodge, 

That  bullets  in  no  deadly  place  may  lodge  !)  — 

Him  of  Eng.  Law  behold, 

Not  overbold 

To  reason  why  when  sergeants  bid  him  charge : 

Him  of  Greek  History,  him  of  Geography, 

All  very  fine  and  large, 

This,  swift  to  seize  advantage  of  topography. 

That,  to  announce  how  ne'er  a  corps  did  train 

So  well  since  Sparta  went  upon  the  wane. 

And  there  be  others : 

A  publisher  and  sundry  heads  of  houses. 

Spurred  by  North  Oxford  spouses, 

Bidden  go  forth  by  yet  more  aged  mothers ; 

And,  standing  desperately  at  attention 

(But  looking  forward  to  their  tea  and  scones), 

Innumerable  dons 

And  parsons  beyond  mention. 

IV 

They  are  not  afraid  of  the  Boys'  Brigade,  for  they've 

taken  the  kiddies'  guns, 
Which  shoot  nohow  —  but  they've  learnt  by  now  to 

depend  on  the  end  that  stuns. 
And  all  the  rules  of  the  Final  Schools  combine  in  a 

splendid  spur. 
When   the  Pyrrhic  phalanx   does   right-about-turn 

and  the  order  is  "As  you  were !" 


WILFRID   BLAIR  27 

Oh,  A'V  recruit  w  learning  to  shuut,  the  Boy   Scout 

scouteth  still,  — 
But  after  them  all,  the  dons,  the  dojis !  —  the  deathless 

dons  do  drill ! 
" Louvain !"  is  the  word,  and  their  souls  are  stirred; 

for  they  think  of  their  matchless  tuns, 
And  the  ground  shall  be  dusted  ere  Oxford's  crusted 

port  shall  be  broached  by  Huns  I 

—  Wilfrid  Blair. 


28  H.   W.   BLISS 


"ANY  FRIEND  TO  ANY  FRIEND" 

Ev'n  as  I  thought  of  you  your  soul  had  sped, 

Friend  of  old,  happy,  far-off  boyhood  days, 

And,  as  across  the  sea  I  turned  my  gaze, 

The  soil  of  France  with  your  brave  blood  was  red  ! 

Blame  not  the  shears  that  slit  the  thin  yarn  thread. 

Though  life  be  lost,  immortal  is  the  praise  ! 

Would   I   were  with  you  crowned  with  victory's 

bays, 
O  Happy  Warrior  'midst  our  English  dead ! 

Yea !  God  of  Battles,  what  a  time  to  die ! 
Thy  Courts  are  echoing  to  the  tuck  of  drum. 
The  wide  days  flame  with  comet  souls  that  fly 
Triumphant,  at  a  bound,  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
The  nights  ablaze,  with  their  white  passage  riven, 
As,  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  swift  they  come. 

—  H.  W.  Bliss. 


MAXWELL   BODEXHEIM  29 


THE    CAMP-FOLLOWER 

We  spoke,  the  camp-follower  and  L 

About  us  was  a  cold,  pungent  odor  — 

Gun-powder,  stale  wine,  wet  earth,  and  the  smell  of 
thousands  of  men. 

She  said  it  reminded  her  of  the  scent 

In  the  house  of  prostitutes  she  had  lived  in. 

About  us  were  soldiers  —  hordes  of  scarlet  women, 
stupidly,  smilingly  giving  up  their  bodies 

To  a  putrid-lipped,  chuckling  lover  —  Death  ; 

While  their  mistress  in  tinsel  whipped  them  on.  .  .  . 

She  spoke  of  a  woman  she  had  known  in  Odessa, 

Owner  of  a  huge  band  of  girls. 

Who  had  pocketed  their  earnings  for  years, 

Only  to  be  used,  swindled  and  killed  by  some  noble- 
man. .  .  . 

She  said  she  thought  of  this  grinning  woman 

Whenever  she  saw  an  officer  brought  back  from 
battle,  dead.  .  .  . 

And  I  sat  beside  her  and  wondered. 

—  Maxwell  Bodenheim. 


30  F.    W.   BOURDILLON 


HERE:    AND  THERE 

September,  1914 

HERE 

Soft  benediction  of  September  sun ; 
Voices  of  children,  laughing  as  they  run; 
Green  English  lawns,  bright  flowers  and  butterflies ; 
And  over  all  the  blue  embracing  skies. 

THERE 

Tumult  and  roaring  of  the  incessant  gun; 
Dead  men  and  dying,  trenches  lost  and  won ; 
Blood,  mud,  and  havoc,  bugles,  shoutings,  cries; 
And  over  all  the  blue  embracing  skies. 

—  F.  W.  Bourdillon. 


ROBERT  BRIDGES  31 


LORD   KITCHENER 

UxFLixCHiXG  hero,  watchful  to  foresee 

And  face  thy  country's  peril  wheresoe'er, 

Directing  war  and  peace  with  equal  care, 

Till  by  long  toil  ennobled  thou  wert  he 

Whom  England  call'd  and  bade  "Set  my  arm  free 

To  obey  my  will  and  save  my  honour  fair"  — 

What  day  the  foe  presumed  on  her  despair 

And  she  herself  had  trust  in  none  but  thee : 

Among  Herculean  deeds  the  miracle 

That  mass'd  the  labour  of  ten  years  in  one 

Shall  be  thy  monument.     Thy  work  is  done 

Ere  we  could  thank  thee ;   and  the  high  sea  swell 

Surgeth  unheeding  where  thy  proud  ship  fell 

By  the  lone  Orkneys,  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

—  Robert  Bridges. 
June  8,  1916. 


32  ALTER  BRODY 


KARTUSHKIYA-BEROZA 

It  is  twelve  years  since  I  have  been  there  — 

I  was  born  there, 

In  the  Httle  town,  by  the  river  — 

It  all  comes  back  to  me  now 

Reading  in  the  newspaper : 

"  The  Germans  have  seized  the  bridge-head  at  Kartush- 

kiya-Beroza; 
The  Russians  are  retreating  in  good  order  across  the 

marshes; 
The  town  is  inflames." 

Karttishkiya-Beroza ! 
Sweet-sounding,  time-scented  name  — 
Smelling  of  wide-extending  marshes  of  hay ; 
Smelling  of  cornfields ; 
Smelling  of  apple-orchards ; 
Smelling  of  cherry-trees  in  full  blossom ; 
Smelling  of  all  the  pleasant  recollections  of  my  child- 
hood — 
Smelling  of  Grandmother's  kitchen, 
Grandmother's  freshly-baked  dainties. 
Grandmother's  plum-pudding  — 
Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 


ALTER  BRODY  33 


I  see  before  me  a  lane  running  between  two  rows  of 

straggling  cottages  — 
I  cannot  remember  the  name  of  the  lane ; 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  anv  name  at  all ; 
But  I  remember  it  was  broad  and  unpaven  and 

shaded  with  wide-branching  chestnuts  — 
And  enters  the  market-place 
Just  a  few  houses  after  my  Grandfather's  — 
Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 


I  can  see  it  even  now 

Mv  Grandfather's  house  — 

On  the  lane,  to  the  right,  as  you  come  from  the  mar- 
ket-place ; 

A  big,  hospitable  frame  building  — 

Big  like  my  Grandfather's  own  heart, 

And  hospitable  like  Grandmother's  smile  — 

I  can  see  it  even  now. 

With  the  white-pillared  porch  in  the  centre  and  the 
sharp-gabled  roof 

Pierced  with  little  windows  ; 

And  the  great  quadrangular  garden  behind  it ; 

And  the  tall  fence  surrounding  the  garden ; 

And  the  old  well  in  the  corner  of  the  garden; 

With  the  bucket-lift 

Rising  over  the  fence  — 

Kartushkiva-Beroza ! 


34  ALTER  BRODY 


I  can  see  him  even  now, 

My  Grandfather  — 

Bending  over  me,  tall  and  sad-eyed  and  thought- 
ful- 
Lifting  me  up  and  seating  me  on  his  knees 

Lovingly, 

And  listening  to  all  my  childish  questions  and  con- 
fessions ; 

Pardoning,  admonishing,  remonstrating  — 

Satisfying  my  interrogative  soul  with  good-humored 
indulgence  — 

And  my  Grandmother, 

Dear  little  woman ! 

I  can  never  dissociate  her  from  plum-pudding  and 
apple  dumplings. 

And  raisin-cakes  and  almond  cakes  and  crisp  potato- 
pancakes 

And  the  smell  of  fish  frying  on  the  fire  — 

And  then  there  is  my  cousin,  Miriam, 

Who  lived  in  the  yellow  house  across  the  lane  — 

A  freckle-faced,  cherry-eyed  little  girl  with  a  puckered- 
up  nose. 

I  was  very  romantic  about  her  ; 

And  then  there  is  my  curse,  my  rival  at  school,  my 
arch-enemy  — 

Jacob, 

The  synagogue  sexton's  boy, 

On  whom  I  was  always  warring  — 


ALTER  BRODY  35 


God  knows  on  what  battlefield  he  must  be  lying 


now ! 


And  then  there  is  Nathan  and  Joseph  and  Berel  and 

Solomon 
And  Ephraim,  the  baker's  boy, 
And  Baruch  and  Gershen  and  IMendel 
And  long-legged,  sandy-haired  Emanuel  who  fell  into 

the  pond  with  me  that  time, 
While  we  were  skating  on  the  ice  — 
Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 

I  can  see  myself  even  now 

In  the  lane  on  a  summer's  day, 

Cap  in  hand,  chasing  after  dragon-flies  — 

Suddenly,  near  by,  sounds  the  noise  of  drums  and 

bugles  — 
I  know  what  that  means  ! 
Breathlessly  I  dash  up  the  lane  — 
It  is  the  regiment  quartered  in  the  barracks  at  the 

end  of  the  town,  in  its  annual  parade  on  the 

highway  — 
How  I  would  wish  to  be  one  of  those  gray-coated 

heroes ! 
I  watch  them  eager-eyed  — 
And  run  after  them  until  they  reach  the  Gentile 

Quarter  — 
And  then  I  turn  back  — 
Kartushkiva-Beroza  1 


36  ALTER  BRODY 


I  am  in  the  market-place  -^ 

At  a  Fair ; 

The  market-place  is  a  heaving  mass  of  carts  and 

horses  and  oxen ; 
The  oxen  are  lowing,  the  horses  are  neighing,  the 

peasants  are  cursing  in  a  dozen  different  dia- 
lects — 
I  am  in  Grandfather's  store, 
On  the  lower  end  of  the  market-place,  right  opposite 

the  public  well  — 
The  store  is  full  of  peasants  and  peasant  women, 

bargaining  at  the  top  of  their  voices ; 
The  men  are  clad  in  rough  sheepskin  coats  and  fur 

caps; 
The  women  are  gay  in  bright-colored  cottons  and 

wear  red  kerchiefs  around  their  heads ; 
My  Grandfather  is  standing  behind  the  counter 

measuring  out  rope  to  some  peasants; 
Grandmother  is  cutting  a  strip  of  linen  for  a  peasant 

woman,  chaffering  with  another  one  at  the  same 

time,  about  the  price  of  a  pair  of  sandals  — 
And  I  am  sitting  there,  behind  the  counter,  on  a 

sack  of  flour. 
Playing  with  my  black-eyed  little  cousin  — 

Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 
Kartushkiva-Beroza ! 
It  comes  back  to  me  suddenly  — 


ALTER   BRODY  37 


That  I  am  sitting  here,  with  a  newspaper  in  my  hand, 

Reading : 

"  llie  Germans  have  seized  the  bridge-head  at  Kart'lsh- 

kiya-Beroza ; 
The  Russians  are  retreating  in  good  order  across  the 

marshes; 
The  town  is  in  flames!" 

—  Alter  Brody. 


38  RUPERT  BROOKE 


THE  SOLDIER 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me : 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England 
given ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends ;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

—  Rupert  Brooke. 

(A  sublieutenant  in  the  volunteer  Naval  Reserve, 
Rupert  Brooke  died  from  sunstroke  on  his  way  to  the 
Dardanelles  on  April  23,  1915,  and  was  buried  in  the 
Greek  island  of  Skyros.) 


LORD  BURGH CLERE  39 


AFTERMATH 

Yes,  he  is  gone,  there  is  the  message,  see  1 

Slain  by  a  Prussian  bullet  as  he  led 

The  men  that  loved  him  —  dying,  cheered  them 

on  — 
My  son,  my  eldest  son.    So  be  it,  God ! 

This  is  no  time  for  tears,  no  time  to  mourn. 
No  time  for  sombre  draperies  of  woe. 
Let  the  aggressors  weep  !  for  they  have  sinned 
The  sin  of  Satan.     Lust  of  power  and  pride, 
^lean  envy  of  their  neighbors'  weal,  a  plot 
Hatched  amidst  glozing  smiles  and  prate  of  peace 
Through  the  false  years ;   until  the  Day,  the  Day 
When  all  this  worship  at  the  Devil's  feet 
Should  win  the  world.     Ay,  let  them  weep ! 

But  we 
^^'itll    eyes   undimmed    march    on;     our   mourning 

robes 
Be-jcwelled  by  the  deeds  of  those  that  die. 
Lustre  on  lustre,  till  no  sable  patch 
Peeps  through  their  brilliance. 

In  the  years  to  come, 
When  we  have  done  our  work,  and  God's  own  peace, 


40  LORD  BURGHCLERE 

The  Peace  of  Justice,  Mercy,  Righteousness, 
Like  the  still  radiance  of  a  summer's  dawn. 
With  tranquil  glory  floods  a  troubled  world ; 
Why  then,  perhaps,  in  the  old  hall  at  home. 
Where  once  I  dreamed  my  eldest-born  should  stand 
The  master,  as  I  stand  the  master  now, 
Our  eyes,  my  wife,  shall  meet  and  gleam,  and  mark 
Niched  on  the  walls  in  sanctity  of  pride, 
Hal's  sword,  Dick's  medal,  and  the  cross  he  won 
Yet  never  wore.     That  is  the  time  for  tears, 
Drawn  from  a  well  of  love  deep  down ;  deep  down, 
Deep  as  the  mystery  of  immortal  souls, 
That  is  the  time  for  tears ;  not  now,  not  now ! 

—  Burghclere. 


DANA    BURNETT  41 


THE  RETURN 

Home  across  the  clover 

When  the  war  was  over 

Came  the  young  men  slowly  with  an  air  of  being  old. 

On  a  morning  blue  and  gold 

Through  the  weed-grown  meadow-places 

Marched  young  soldiers  with  old  faces, 

Marched  the  columns  of  the  Emperor  with  dull, 

bewildered  eyes, 
And  the  day  was  like  a  rose  upon  the  skies ; 
But  they  feared  both  light  and  life. 
Feared  the  aftermath  of  strife. 
Slow  they  came  — 

Now  that  it  was  over  — 
Silent  and  sick  and  lame. 

Home  across  the  clover. 

A  woman  knelt  in  a  garden  by  the  road, 

Patting  a  little  mound  of  earth 
With  aimless  hands.     Along  the  highway  flowed 

The  gray  tide,  while  the  day  was  at  its  birth. 
She  heard  the  drums,  looked  up,  half  smiled  : 

"Why  do  you  march,"  she  said,  "and  play  at 
soldiers? 


42  DANA   BURNET 


There's  none  to  laugh  at  you  —  no  Httle  child  ! 

Not  one.     They've  all  gone  back  to  sleeping." 

She  fell  to  awful  weeping. 

"Why  do  you  play  at  soldiers?" 
Then  dropped  down 

To  pat  the  little  grave.     The  line  went  on  and  on 
into  the  town. 

They  saw  it  first  in  the  city's  eyes, 

Old  men  grouped  by  their  fright,  ran  here  and  there 
In  startled  herds,  with  shrill  unmeaning  cries. 

And  there  was  white  in  every  woman's  hair, 
And  when  a  window  yielded  them  a  face 

'Twas  like  a  flower  blasted  by  the  sun ; 

Children  there  were  none. 
The  world  seemed  robbed  of  joyousness  and  grace, 

A  young  girl  with  a  head  of  snow 
Sat  weaving  garlands  in  the  market-place 

With  hands  unearthly  slow. 
As  though  her  toil  must  be 
The  very  measure  of  eternity. 

A  boy  ran  from  the  ranks,  stooped,  touched  her  brow ; 
"  M argot,  M argot !    Is  it  thou  f  " 
She  did  not  glance  up  at  the  white-faced  lad. 

Deep  in  the  gray  line  rang  a  sudden  shout : 
"  They're  mad  !     They're  mad  ! " 

"Silence,  you  dogs,  until  you're  mustered  out. 
Forward,  to  greet  the  Emperor  !" 


DAXA   BURXET  43 


The  line 
Wavered  and  moaned  and   stumbled  throii<,^li  the 
town 
Like  some  dark  serpent  with  a  broken  spine. 
Before  the  pahice  gate,  in  cloak  and  crown, 
A  shriveled  figure  sat  with  shaking  hands, 
Forming  toy  soldiers  into  various  bands. 
A  figure  in  a  jeweled  diadem, 

^Yho,  as  the  swords  leaped  with  a  ringing  noise, 
Lifted  his  wasted  eyes  and  looked  at  them. 
"  Ah !"  said  the  Emperor,  and  smiled  : 
"More  toys!" 

—  Dana  Burnet. 


44  AMELIA   JOSEPHINE  BURR 


KITCHENER'S  MARCH 

Not  the  mufBed  drums  for  him 
Nor  the  waiUng  of  the  fife. 
Trumpets  blaring  to  the  charge 
Were  the  music  of  his  life. 
Let  the  music  of  his  death 
Be  the  feet  of  marching  men ; 
Let  his  heart  a  thousandfold 
Take  the  field  again. 

Of  his  patience,  of  his  calm, 
Of  his  quiet  faithfulness, 
England,  raise  your  hero's  cairn ! 
He  is  worthy  of  no  less. 
Stone  by  stone,  in  silence  laid, 
Singly,  surely,  let  it  grow. 
He  whose  living  was  to  serve, 
Would  have  had  it  so. 

There's  a  body  drifting  down 
For  the  mighty  sea  to  keep. 
There's  a  spirit  cannot  die 
While  a  heart  is  left  to  leap 
In  the  land  he  gave  his  all, 
Steel  alike  to  praise  and  hate. 


AMELIA   JOSEPHINE  BURR  45 

He  has  saved  the  life  he  spent, 

Death  has  struck  too  kite. 

Not  the  muffled  drums  for  him, 
Nor  the  wailing  of  the  fife  — 
Trumpets  blaring  to  the  charge 
Were  the  music  of  his  life. 
Let  the  mnsic  of  his  death 
Be  the  feet  of  marching  men  ! 
Let  his  heart  a  thousandfold 
Take  the  field  again  ! 

—  Amelia  Josephine  Burr. 


46  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 


LANGEMARCK  AT  YPRES 

This  is  the  ballad  of  Langemarck, 

A  story  of  glory  and  might ; 
Of  the  vast  Hun  horde,  and  Canada's  part 

In  the  great,  grim  fight. 

It  was  April  fair  on  the  Flanders  Fields, 

But  the  dreadest  April  then, 
That  ever  the  years,  in  their  fateful  flight, 

Had  brought  to  this  world  of  men. 

North  and  east,  a  monster  wall. 

The  mighty  Hun  ranks  lay. 
With  fort  on  fort,  and  iron-ringed  trench, 

Menacing,  grim  and  gray. 

And  south  and  west,  like  a  serpent  of  fire, 

Serried  the  British  lines. 
And  in  between,  the  dying  and  dead. 
And  the  stench  of  blood,  and  the  trampled  mud, 

On  the  fair,  sweet  Belgian  vines. 

And  far  to  the  eastward,  harnessed  and  taut, 

Like  a  scimitar,  shining  and  keen. 
Gleaming  out  of  that  ominous  gloom, 

Old  France's  hosts  were  seen. 


WILFRED   CAMPBELL  47 

Wlien  out  of  the  grim  Hun  lines  one  night, 

There  rolled  a  sinister  smoke ;  — 
A  strange,  weird  cloud,  like  a  pale,  green  shroud, 

And  death  lurked  in  its  cloak. 

On  a  fiend-like  wind  it  curled  along 

Over  the  brave  French  ranks, 
Like  a  monster  tree  its  vapors  spread. 

In  hideous,  burning  banks 
Of  poisonous  fumes  that  scorched  the  night 

With  their  sulphurous  demon  danks. 

And  men  went  mad  with  horror,  and  fled 
From  that  terrible  strangling  death. 

That  seemed  to  sear  both  bodv  and  soul 
With  its  baleful,  flaming  breath. 

Till  even  the  little  dark  men  of  the  south, 

Who  feared  neither  God  nor  man. 
Those  fierce,  wild  fighters  of  Afric's  steppes, 

Broke  their  battalions  and  ran  ;  — 

Ran  as  they  never  had  run  before, 

Gasping,  and  fainting  for  breath ; 
For  they  knew  'twas  no  human  foe  that  slew  ; 

And  that  hideous  smoke  meant  death. 

Then  red  in  the  reek  of  that  evil  cloud, 
The  llun  swept  over  the  plain ; 


48  WILFRED  CAMPBELL 

And  the  murderer's  dirk  did  its  monster  work, 
Mid  the  scythe-like  shrapnel  rain. 

Till  it  seemed  that  at  last  the  brute  Hun  hordes 

Had  broken  that  wall  of  steel ; 
And  that  soon,  through  this  breach  in  the  freeman's 
dyke. 

His  trampling  hosts  would  wheel ;  — 

And  sweep  to  the  south  in  ravaging  might, 

And  Europe's  peoples  again 
Be  trodden  under  the  tyrant's  heel. 

Like  herds,  in  the  Prussian  pen. 

But  in  that  line  on  the  British  right, 

There  massed  a  corps  amain, 
Of  men  who  hailed  from  a  far  west  land 

Of  mountain  and  forest  and  plain ; 

Men  new  to  war  and  its  dreadest  deeds, 

But  noble  and  staunch  and  true ; 
Men  of  the  open,  East  and  West, 
Brew  of  old  Britain's  brew. 

These  were  the  men  out  there  that  night, 

When  Hell  loomed  close  ahead  ; 
Who  saw  that  pitiful,  hideous  rout. 

And  breathed  those  gases  dread ; 
While  some  went  under  and  some  went  mad ; 

But  never  a  man  there  fled. 


WILFRED   CAMPBELL  49 

For  the  word  was  "Canada,"  theirs  to  fight, 

And  keep  on  fighting  still ;  — 
Britain  said,  fight,  and  fight  they  would, 

Though  the  Devil  himself  in  sulphurous  mood, 
Came  over  that  hideous  hill. 

Yea,  stubborn,  they  stood,  that  hero  band, 

Where  no  soul  hoped  to  live ; 
For  five,  'gainst  eighty,  thousand  men. 

Were  hopeless  odds  to  give. 

Yea,  fought  they  on  !     'Twas  Friday  eve. 
When  that  demon  gas  drove  down  ; 

'Twas  Saturday  eve  that  saw  them  still 
Grimly  holding  their  own; 

Sunday,  Monday,  saw  them  yet, 

A  steadily  lessening  band, 
With  "no  surrender"  in  their  hearts, 

But  the  dream  of  a  far-off  land. 

Where  mother  and  sister  and  love  would  weep 
For  the  hushed  heart  lying  still ;  — 

But  never  a  thought  but  to  do  their  part. 
And  work  the  Empire's  will. 

Ringed  round,  hemmed  in,  and  back  to  back, 

They  fought  there  under  the  dark. 
And  won  for  Empire,  (rod  and  Right, 

At  grim,  red  Langemarck. 

B 


50  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 

Wonderful  battles  have  shaken  this  world, 

Since  the  Dawn-God  overthrew  Dis ; 
Wonderful  struggles  of  right  against  wrong, 
Sung  in  the  rhymes  of  the  world's  great  song. 
But  never  a  greater  than  this. 

Bannockburn,  Inkerman,  Balaclava, 

Marathon's  god-like  stand ; 
But  never  a  more  heroic  deed. 
And  never  a  greater  warrior  breed, 

In  any  warman's  land. 

This  is  the  ballad  of  Langemarck, 

A  story  of  glory  and  might ; 
Of  the  vast  Hun  horde,  and  Canada's  part 

In  the  great,  grim  fight. 

—  Wilfred  Campbell. 

Editorial  Note:  A  son  of  Mr.  Wilfred  Campbell,  the 
poet,  is  now  fighting  at  St.  Eloi.  He  is  Capt.  Basil  Camp- 
bell, of  the  Second  Pioneers. 


PATRICK   R.    CHALMERS  51 


Gl'XS  OF  VERDUN 

(Reprinted  by  the  special  permission  of  the  proprietors 
of  Punch.) 

Guns  of  Verdun  point  to  ]\Ietz 
From  the  plated  parapets ; 
Guns  of  Metz  grin  back  again 
O'er  the  fields  of  fair  Lorraine. 

Guns  of  !Metz  are  long  and  grey 
Growling  through  a  summer  day ; 
Guns  of  Verdun,  grey  and  long, 
Boom  an  echo  of  their  song. 

Guns  of  IMetz  to  Verdim  roar, 
"Sisters,  you  shall  foot  the  score ;" 
Guns  of  Verdun  say  to  IMetz, 
"Fear  not,  for  we  pay  our  debts." 

Guns  of  Metz  they  grumble,  "AMien?" 
Guns  of  Verdun  answer  then, 
"Sisters,  when  to  guard  Lorraine 
Gunners  lay  you  East  again  !" 

—  Patrick  R.  Chalmers. 


52  ANNIE   VIVANTI   CHART  RES 


THE  BROKEN  ROSE 

TO    KING   ALBERT 

Shy,  youthful,  silent  —  and  misunderstood 

In  the  white  glare  of  Kinghood  thou  didst  stand. 

The  sceptre  in  thy  hand 

Seemed  but  a  flower  the  Fates  had  tossed  to  thee, 

And  thou  wert  called,  perchance  half-scornfully, 

Albert  the  Good. 

To-day  thou  standest  on  a  blackened  grave, 
Thy  broken  sword  still  lifted  to  the  skies. 
Thy  pure  and  fearless  eyes 
Gaze  into  Death's  grim  visage  unappalled 
And  by  the  storm-swept  nations  thou  art  called 
Albert  the  Brave. 

Tossed  on  a  blood-red  sea  of  rage  and  hate 

The  frenzied  world  rolls  forward  to  its  doom. 

But  high  above  the  gloom 

Flashes  the  fulgent  beacon  of  thy  fame. 

The  nations  thou  hast  saved  exalt  thy  name  — 

Albert  the  Great ! 


ANNIE   VIVANTI   CHARTRES  53 

Albert  the  good,  the  brave,  the  great,  thy  land 

Lies  at  thy  feet,  a  crushed  and  morient  rose 

Trampled  and  desecrated  by  thy  foes. 

One  day  a  greater  Belgium  will  be  born, 

But  what  of  this  dead  Belgium  wracked  and  torn? 

What  of  this  rose  flung  out  upon  the  sand  ?  .  .  . 

Behold  I     Afar  where  sk>'  and  waters  meet 
A  white-robed  Figure  walketh  on  the  sea. 
(Peace  goes  before  Him  and  her  face  is  sweet.) 
As  once  He  trod  the  waves  of  Galilee 
He  comes  again  —  the  tumult  sinks  to  rest, 
The  stormy  waters  shine  beneath  His  feet. 
He  sees  the  dead  rose  lying  in  the  sand, 
He  lifts  the  dead  rose  in  His  holy  hand 
And  lays  it  at  His  breast. 

O  broken  rose  of  Belgium,  thou  art  blest ! 

—  Annie  Vivanti  Chartres. 


54  GILBERT  K.    CHESTERTON 


THE    WIFE    OF    FLANDERS 

Low  and  brown  barns  thatched  and  repatched  and 
tattered 

Where  I  had  seven  sons  until  to-day, 
A  little  hill  of  hay  your  spur  has  scattered  .  .  . 

This  is  not  Paris.     You  have  lost  the  way. 

You,  staring  at  your  sword  to  find  it  brittle, 
Surprised  at  the  surprise  that  was  your  plan. 

Who,  shaking  and  breaking  barriers  not  a  little, 
Find  never  more  the  death-door  of  Sedan. 

Must  I  for  more  than  carnage  call  you  claimant. 
Paying  you  a  penny  for  each  son  you  slay  ? 

Man,  the  whole  globe  in  gold  were  no  repayment 
For   what    you    have    lost.      And   how   shall   I 
repay  ? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  red  spark  that  caught 
me 
From  a  kind  farm  that  never  had  a  name  ? 
What  is  the  price  of  that  dead  man  they  brought 
me? 
For  other  dead  men  do  not  look  the  same. 


GILBERT   K.    CHESTERTON  55 

How  should  I  pay  for  one  poor  graven  steeple 

Whereon  vou  shattered  what  vou  shall  not  know, 

How  should  I  pay  you,  miserable  people? 
How  should  I  pay  you  everything  you  owe? 

Unhappy,  can  I  give  you  back  your  honor?] 
Though  I  forgave  would  any  man  forget  ? 

While  all  the  great  green  land  has  trampled  on  her 
The  treason  and  terror  of  the  night  we  met. 

Not  any  more  in  vengeance  or  in  pardon 
An  old  wife  bargains  for  a  bean  that's  hers. 

You  have  no  word  to  break ;   no  heart  to  harden. 
Ride  on  and  prosper.     You  have  lost  your  spurs. 

—  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton. 


56       THE  REV.   PHILIP  BYARD   CLAYTON 


THEY  HELD  THEIR  GROUND 

Grey  broke  the  light  of  that  Sabbath  dawn 

On  the  EngHsh  pickets, 
Gold  rose  the  sun  o'er  the  unreaped  corn 

And  the  Hainault  thickets. 
Through  the  park  at  home,  where  the  young  rooks 

caw'd. 
And  the  dew  lay  deep  on  the  churchyard  sward, 
Went  Mary,  arisen  to  meet  her  Lord  — 
While  Mons  must  be  held  for  England. 

Clear  broke  the  day  as  the  bugles  blew,  — 

Who  shall  hear  them  to-morrow  ? 
Sternly  the  thunder  of  Edom  grew, 

And  the  tally  of  sorrow. 
Right  wing,  left  wing,  centre  attacked, 
Legions  launched  like  a  cataract. 
But  the  English  stood  to  their  plighted  pact,  — 
Yes,  Mons  must  be  held  for  England  ! 

Pitiless  noon,  when  the  screaming  shard 

Left  the  air  acrid. 
But  they  looked  on  Malplaquet  and  Oudenarde, 

So  the  soil  was  sacred. 


THE   REV.    PHILIP   BYARD   CLAYTON       57 

And  they  thought  (who  knows?)  on  some  Surrey 

lane, 
On  some  mother's  kiss,  or  some  school  refrain, 
And    they    tightened    the    girths    of   their   saddles 

again, 
Since  Mons  must  be  held  for  England. 

Red  set  the  sun  in  the  angry  skies 

Ere  the  fight  was  over. 
Fierce  were  the  beams  of  the  cruisers'  eyes 

By  the  cliffs  of  Dover. 
News  —  ill  news  —  for  Namur  is  lost ! 
No  need  for  the  Eagle  to  count  the  cost. 
But  Mons  was  the  merest  hill  at  the  most, 
Yet  Mons  had  been  held  for  England. 

Lord,  Who  hast  known  what  a  slain  Son  is, 

Judge  Thou  their  labor  ! 
Lifted  they  eyes  to  the  vanities? 

Deceived  their  neighbor? 
Sift  Thou  the  souls  that  are  utterly  Thine, 
Clean  are  those  cold  hands  of  covert  design ; 
Silent  they  lie  in  their  last  long  line, 
Who  died  to  hold  Mons  for  I^igland  ! 

—  Philip  Byard  Clayton. 


58  LINCOLN   COLCORD 


VISION  OF  WAR 


1. 


I  WENT  out  into  the  night  of  quiet  stars ; 

I  looked  up  at  the  wheeling  heavens,  at  the  myste- 
rious firmament ; 

I  thought  of  the  awful  distances  out  there,  of  the 
incredible  magnitudes,  of  space  and  silence  and 
eternity  ; 

I  thought  of  man,  his  life,  his  love,  his  dream ; 

I  thought  of  his  body,  how  it  is  born  and  grows,  and 
of  his  spirit  that  cannot  be  explained. 

All  about  me  slept  the  land  in  peace,  and  nature 

slept  in  deep  serenity ; 
An  off-shore  wind  had  died  at  sunset,  the  bay  was 

calm  and  golden  as  twilight  fell ; 
Not  a  cloud  broke  the  clear  and  tender  blue  of  the 

evening  sky. 
Then  the  quiet  stars  came  out,  the  air  grew  cool  with 

the  breath  of  night ; 
A  land-breeze  flurried,  wafting  the  odor  of  damp 

woods  and  late  hay-fields ; 
A  gentle  breeze,  that  scarcely  turned  the  sleeping 

leaves. 


LINCOLN  COLCORD  59 

I  walked  on  through  the  village,  I  saw  the  lights  go 
out  in  houses  as  men  and  women  prepared  for 
bed; 

Safe  and  secure,  the  homes  of  my  neighbors  rested 
in  the  shadow  of  tall  trees,  that  had  been 
growing  there  peacefully  a  long  time ; 

I  passed  on  into  the  country,  crickets  were  singing 
in  the  fields,  fireflies  were  glimmering  in  the 
pastures  among  low  growths  of  spruce  and 
pine; 

I  mounted  a  hill,  high  overhead  brooded  the  ma- 
jestic and  silent  heavens ; 

On  the  eastern  horizon  a  great  bright  star  arose, 
casting  a  track  across  the  bay. 

I  have  never  seen  the  world  so  calm,  the  air  so  clear 

and  still ; 
I  have  never  known  an  hour  so  full  of  quietness. 

2. 

Hour  of  the  War  ! 

Now,   now  —  and   here  —  on   this  same   earth,   and 

under  this  same  sky  ! 
Now  !  —  Now  !  —  The    War  !  —  The    War  !  —  The 

War ! 

Night,  and  a  sodden  field,  and  starlight  over  all, 
And  on  the  ground  the  bodies  of  dead  men  lying; 


60  LINCOLN  COLCORD 

Tumbled,  broken,  grotesque,  in  attitudes  unhuman, 
in  lumpish,  swollen  heaps,  they  lie, 

Where  death  suddenly  snatched  them  up  and  flung 
them  down. 

A  strange,  dark,  silent  scene ; 

Here  passed  the  awful  charge  three  days  ago ; 

Here  met  the  choking  volley,  shattered  out  and  fell. 

Three  days  and  nights  they  have  been  lying  here ; 
No  help  could  reach  them,  cast  between  the  battle 

lines ; 
No  help  is  needed  now. 

Slowly  above  their  heads  the  conflict  wore  itself 

away ; 
Calm  settled  on  the  shaking,  riven  air; 
The  sharp  cries  of  the  wounded  stopped  one  by  one, 

their  groans  grew  fainter ; 
A  few  crawled  off  —  the  others  lay  as  they  had 

fallen,  under  the  sun  and  stars ; 
Then  the  third  night,  and  peace  at  last,  the  quietness 

restored. 

3. 

Listen !  —  could  one  be  living  ?  —  come  this  way  ; 

Here  where  a  score  of  bodies  are  drawn  mysteriously 

together, 
A  turning  face  catches  a  gleam  of  starlight, 

A  hand  moves,  winnowing  the  air. 


LINCOLN   COLCORD  61 

"  Water  !"  —  Xo  use,  no  use  —  too  late ; 

His  breast  is  shot  away  —  don't  move  him  —  God, 

how  he  bled  ! 
What  is  it,  comrade?     A  letter  —  make  a  lijiht : 
"  Wr  have  not  heard  since  you  left  home.  .  .  .  I  cannot 

bear  if.  ..." 
Turn  the  sheet  over:  —  "Oh,  my  dear,  be  careful  !" 
Here   is   the   signature  —  the  address  —  a  distant 

village ; 
I  have  been  there  —  an  ancient,  quiet  village  of  the 

north, 
Fronting  the  open  sea. 
Yes,  comrade,  T  will  write  —  he  smiles : 
To  lie  here,  thinking,  suffering,  remembering; 
To  be  left  to  die  alone ! 

4. 

But  not  alone : 

Passing  brother,  you  have  yet  a  grim  companion ; 

Along  the  edge  of  the  thicket  just  now,  as  I  went  to 
the  brook  down  there  for  water, 

I  stumbled  over  something  that  must  have  been  left 
from  the  charge  a  week  ago  : 

A  body  that  held  the  remnants  of  a  man. 

He  had  dragged  himself  to  the  brook,  he  lay  im- 
bedded in  tall  waving  grass ; 

His  stomach  had  been  ripped  open  by  shrapnel, 
maggots  were  heaving  in  the  wound  ; 


62  LINCOLN  COLCORD 

(Did  you  know  that  a  man  could  live  while  maggots 
formed  in  his  flesh  ?) 

His  muscles  twitched  convulsively,  he  was  barely 
conscious ; 

He  did  not  notice  the  match  I  struck,  his  eyes  were 
filmed  over,  he  would  not  drink ; 

The  region  that  he  inhabited  was  an  unknown,  un- 
imaginable land. 

(At  home,  a  woman  waits  for  news  of  him : 
It  is  well  that  she  can  never  hear.) 

5. 

Pass   on,    pass    on !    Behold    the   mobilization    of 

armies ; 
The  men  leaving  their  work  at  the  counter  and 

factory,  dropping  the  plow  where  it  stands  in 

the  field, 
Flocking  together,  filling  the  towns,  saying  good-by 

to  wife  and  children,  taking  a  last  look  around ; 
{Our  country  calls  !    Our  country,  and  our  King  !) 

Behold  the  flinging  forward  of  nations  in  the  wake  of 

armies ; 
The   marvellous,    massive    engines,    the    enormous 

paraphernalia ; 
The   powerful   mechanical    conveyances,    the   long 

lines  of  them  carrying  supplies ; 


LINCOLN   COLCORD  63 

The  immense  stores  of  provisions  at  the  depot,  the 
stacks  of  clothing  and  other  necessities,  the 
huge  piles  of  fodder  and  grain  for  the  horses ; 

The  flaring  illuminations,  the  sweating  gangs  work- 
ing beneath  them,  ceaselessly  receiving,  sorting, 
distributing ; 

The  field  guns,  the  hea\y  artillery,  their  ponderous 
steady  movements  through  the  villages ; 

The  stout-wheeled  wagons  full  of  dangerous,  costly 
ammunition ; 

The  roaring  trains,  arriving  and  departing,  some 
laden  with  supplies,  some  packed  with  hu- 
manity, alive  or  dead ; 

The  vast  and  systematic  commissariat,  the  grist  of 
war. 

6. 

Behold  the  columns,  advancing,  advancing,  ad- 
vancing ; 

Tramping  steadily  onward,  seen  behind  on  the  hills, 
and  seen  ahead  to  the  distant  turn  of  the 
road ; 

Streaming  along  the  valleys,  gaining  and  crossing 
the  passes,  flanking  the  mountain  ranges,  net- 
ting the  land  with  a  lethal  web ; 

Accoutrements  flashing  and  jangling,  thunder  of 
tread,  regular  motion  swaying  and  undulating 
the  lines ; 


64  LINCOLN   COLCORD 

Countless  miles  of  indomitable  marching  men; 
{Our  country  calls  !    Our  country,  and  our  King  !) 

Behold  the  front,  the  million-manned  intrenchments, 

continent-spanning ; 
The  infinite  detail  of  day-works  and  night-works ; 
The  burrowing,  roofing,  screening,  the  placing  of 

barbed-wire  entanglements ; 
The  stealthy  advance  in  the  darkness,  the  hasty 

and  desperate  digging-in  under  fire ; 
The  shifting  and  rushing  forward  of  artillery,  the 

lashing  of   horses,    the    running    of    wires    for 

communication ; 
The  searchlights  feeling  afar  through  the  night,  like 

cold  white  fingers ; 
The  life  of  the  trenches,  after  all  is  completed ; 
The  hidden  underground  chambers,  the  well-con- 
cealed passages,  the  bomb-proof  quarters; 
The  men  laughing  and  singing,  some  of  them  making 

music    on    simple    instruments,    some    playing 

cards,  some  smoking  and  talking ; 
Passing  backwards  and  forwards,  eating,  sleeping, 

fighting,  or  taking  their  leisure,  all  out  of  sight, 

in  tunnels  and  cavities  below  the  surface : 
A  serious  new  game  for  earnest,  grown-up  children. 

(Hark,  hark  !     Aloft  —  look  up ; 
A  great  bird  sails  across  the  sky,  with  loud  and 
strident  whirr  of  wings ; 


LIXCOLX   COLCORD  65 

Terribly  swift  —  a  moment  —  it  is  gone. 
Can  men  be  passing  there  on  high,  so  swiftly  through 
the  air  ?) 

7. 

Pass  on  !     Behold  the  charge ; 

{Ready  !     Run  low  !     Run  wide  ! 

Our  country  calls  !     Our  country,  and  our  King  !) 

Over  the  open  fields,  trampling  the  crops,  dropping 
to  fire,  rising  to  run  ; 

(Some  never  rising,  never  again  to  rise ;) 

Straggling,  thinning,  wavering,  (God,  it  is  hopeless ! 
—  it  is  too  much  !) 

Onward,  onward  pressing,  rushing  and  driving  on- 
ward ; 

(I  did  not  know'  that  men  could  be  so  reckless  and 
brave !) 

Mounting  the  opposite  slope,  cutting  their  way 
through  entanglements ; 

Gaining  the  outer  trenches,  (deadly  work  for  the 
bayonets !) 

Shouting,  cursing,  groaning,  stabbing,  WTestling, 
clubbing  with  butts,  fighting  at  last  with  bare 
fists; 

Annihilating  the  enemy,  capturing  the  posi- 
tion ! 

{Victory !     Victory !     Victory ! 

Our  country  calh  !     Our  country,  and  ojir  King  !) 

V 


66  LINCOLN  COLCORD 

(On  the  open  field  lie  many  huddled  shapes ; 

The  wounded  are  stirring  feebly  out  there,  like  men 

awaking  from  a  violent  dream ; 
They  lift  their  heads,  they  stretch  their  arms,  they 

struggle  to  rise  on  their  elbows ; 
They  sit  up,  staring  around  —  they  crawl  like  snails 

among  the  crops ; 
A  screaming  horse  dashes  athwart  the  line,  dragging 

his  entrails  on  the  ground.) 

8. 

Behold  the  ships  at  sea ; 

A  long  and  weary  time  they  had  been  waiting,  con- 
stantly on  the  alert,  nerves  strained  to  breaking ; 

In  smothering,  foggy  weather,  in  gloomy  days,  in 
pitch-black  nights,  in  wild  and  desperate  gales ; 

Anxious  for  battle,  longing  to  sight  the  enemy, 
every  one  on  the  lookout,  chafing  and  growling ; 

Anything,  anything,  boys,  to  end  this  tedious 
monotony ! 

(Maybe  an  unseen  deliverer  is  at  hand.) 

The  captain  was  walking  the  bridge  that  morning, 
the  crew  were  at  breakfast,  the  navigating 
officer  was  winding  his  chronometers ; 

Suddenly,  from  forward,  a  frantic  cry !  A  man  runs 
aft,  pointing  to  windward ; 

The  captain  whips  out  his  glasses,  scans  the  horizon ; 


LINCOLN   COLCORD  67 

For  a  while,  he  does  not  pick  up  a  little  white  streak 

on    the    water,    not    very    far   away,    drawing 

rapidly  nearer ; 
A  streak  like  the  wake  of  a  shark's  fin,  cutting  along 

on  the  weather  bow. 
He   sees   it !     Quick,   to   the   signal !     Stop !    Full 

speed  astern  ! 
Over,  there,  with  the  helm  ! 

Too  late,  too  late,  captain  of  ship  and  lives ; 

Away  from  the  little  wake  springs  a  broader  wake ; 

A  murderous  fish  drives  straight  towards  you,  churn- 
ing the  water  as  he  goes. 

Close  compartment  doors  !  —  the  last  command  ; 

Then  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  and  stand  there 
waiting ; 

Press  tight  the  lips,  fold  the  arms  on  the  breast, 
throw  back  the  head  : 

Below,  along  the  weather  rail,  a  line  of  men  stands 
silently,  watching  death  come ; 

{Our  country  calls  !     Our  country,  and  our  King  !) 

A  whitish  object  skims  on  the  surface  of  the  blue 

sea; 
The  torpedo  strikes  below  the  magazine ; 
The  ship  is  instantly  blown  in  two  —  she  sinks  like 

lead  ; 
A  faint  cheer  finds  no  listener  but  God. 


68  LINCOLN  COLCORD 

A  few  men  struggle  on  the  water,  where  she  went 

down; 
They  ding  for  a  while  to  fragments  of  wreckage ; 
There  is  no  help  in  sight  —  they  cannot  be  saved. 

(Down  in  the  close,  tight  shell  —  in  the  unseen, 

mysterious  vessel, 
Crouching    in    a   dim    chamber,    in    utter    silence, 

wrapped  in  impenetrable  privacy,  apart  from 

life,  cut  off  from  world  of  land  and  sea, 
A  man  sits,  breathing  hard,  clenching  his  hands ; 
Far  above  him,  where  sunlight  strikes  on  breaking 

wave,  a  secret  eye  looks  out, 
A  secret  mirror  throws  down  to  him  the  story  there ; 
One  long,  intense,  absorbing  glance  —  then  to  the 

signal  stretches  out  his  hand ; 
Turning  away,  as  darkly  as  she  came,  the  submarine 

speeds  homeward, 
Leaving  the  sea  to  seal  her  work  and  bury  her  dead.) 

9. 

Behold!    Hour  of  the  War  ! 

Life  everywhere  flowing  in  strange  new  channels ! 

The  world  aroused,  awakened !  The  silence  rent ! 
Peace  shattered  and  overthrown ! 

The  well-ordered  conventions  rudely  broken  up ! 
The  illusions  dissipated !  The  motives  sud- 
denly disclosed ! 


LINCOLN   COLCORD  69 

Men  face  to  face  with  nature,  death,  and  ])ain  ! 
The  elemental  shown  !  And  dim  and  far,  the 
truth  appearing ! 

The  hovering  dream  !  The  distant  and  divine  con- 
ception 1 

(I  sing  no  battles  lost,  retreating  armies : 

O,  I  tell  you,  in  this  campaign  there  are  no  defeats  I 

O,  I  tell  you,  the  retreating  and  advancing  armies 
are  equally  triumphant ! 

O,  I  tell  you,  the  lost  battles  contribute  as  much  as 
the  battles  won,  to  the  sure  result  of  this  cam- 
paign ! 

Victory  !     Victory  !     Victory  ! 

Our  country  calls  !    Our  country,  and  our  King !) 

10. 

While  about  me  sleeps  the  land  in  peace,  while  men 
and  women  prepare  for  bed ; 

While  the  land-breeze  flurries,  wafting  a  scent  of 
autumn  woods  and  fallen  leaves ; 

While  the  crickets  sing  in  the  fields,  and  fireflies 
glimmer  among  low  spruce  and  pine ; 

While  the  bright  star  rises,  casting  a  track  across 
the  bav ; 

While  the  majestic  heavens  wheel  onward,  over- 
looking space  and  time ; 

While  the  still  air  drops  down  its  quietness  like  love. 

—  Linculn  Colcord. 


70  ALICE  CORBIN 


FALLEN 

He  was  wounded  and  he  fell  in  the  midst  of  hoarse 

shouting. 
The  tide  passed,  and  the  waves  came  and  whispered 

about  his  ankles. 
Far  off  he  heard  a  cock  crow  —  children  laughing. 
Rising  at  dawn  to  greet  the  storm  of  petals 
Shaken  from  apple-boughs ;  he  heard  them  cry. 
And  turned  again  to  find  the  breast  of  her. 
And  sank  confused  with  a  little  sigh  .  .  . 
Thereafter  water  running,  and  a  voice 
That  seemed  to  stir  and  flutter  through  the  trenches 
And  set  dead  lips  to  talking  .  .  . 

Wreckage  was  mingled  with  the  storm  of  petals  .  .  . 

He  felt  her  near  him,  and  the  weight  dropped  off  — 
Suddenly  ... 

—  Alice  Corhin. 


W.   L.    COURTNEY  71 


BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 

Death  and  Sorrow  and  Sleep  : 
Here  where  the  slow  waves  creep, 

This  is  the  chant  I  hear, 
The  chant  of  the  measureless  deep. 

\Miat  was  Sorrow  to  me 
Then,  when  the  young  life  free 

Thirsted  for  joys  of  earth. 
Far  from  the  desolate  sea  ? 

\Miat  was  Sleep  but  a  rest, 
Giving  to  youth  the  best 

Dreams  from  the  ivory  gate. 
Visions  of  God  manifest  ? 

^^^lat  was  death  but  a  tale 
Told  to  faces  grown  pale. 

Worn  or  wasted  with  years  — 
A  meaningless  thing  to  the  hale  ? 

Death  and  Sorrow  and  Sleep : 
Now  their  sad  message  I  keep. 

Tossed  on  the  wet  wind's  breath, 
The  chant  of  the  measureless  deep. 

—  W.  L.  Courtney. 


72  CHARLOTTE  HOLMES   CRAWFORD 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

Franceline  rose  in  the  dawning  gray, 
And  her  heart  would  dance  though  she  knelt  to  pray, 
For  her  man  Michel  had  holiday. 
Fighting  for  France. 

She  offered  her  prayer  by  the  cradle-side, 
And  with  baby  palms  folded  in  hers  she  cried : 
"  If  I  have  but  one  prayer,  dear,  crucified 
Christ  —  save  France  ! 

"But  if  I  have  two,  then,  by  Mary's  grace. 
Carry  me  safe  to  the  meeting  place. 
Let  me  look  once  again  on  my  dear  love's  face. 
Save  him  for  France !" 

She  crooned  to  her  boy  :  "Oh,  how  glad  he'll  be. 
Little  three-months  old,  to  set  eyes  on  thee ! 
For,  '  Rather  than  gold,  would  I  give,'  wrote  he, 
'A  son  to  France.' 

"  Come,  now,  be  good,  little  stray  sauterelle, 
For  we're  going  by-by  to  thy  papa  Michel, 
But  I'll  not  say  where  for  fear  thou  wilt  tell. 
Little  pigeon  of  France ! 


CHARLOTTE  HOLMES   CRAWFORD  73 

"Six  days'  leave  and  a  year  between  ! 
But  what  would  you  have  ?     In  six  days  clean, 
Heaven  was  made,"  said  Franceline, 
"Heaven  and  France." 

She  came  to  the  town  of  the  nameless  name, 
To  the  marching  troops  in  the  street  she  came. 
And  she  held  high  her  boy  like  a  taper  flame 
Burning  for  France. 

Fresh  from  the  trenches  and  gray  with  grime, 
Silent  they  march  like  a  pantomime ; 
"  But  what  need  of  music  ?     My  heart  beats  time  — 
Vive  la  France  ! " 

His  regiment  comes.     Oh,  then  where  is  he  ? 
"There  is  dust  in  my  eyes,  for  I  cannot  see,  — 
Is  that  my  ^Michel  to  the  right  of  thee, 
Soldier  of  France?" 

Then  out  of  the  ranks  a  comrade  fell,  — 
"  Yesterday  —  'twas  a  splinter  of  shell  — 
And  he  whispered  thy  name,  did  thy  poor  Michel, 
Dying  for  France." 

The  tread  of  the  troops  on  the  pavement  throbbed 
Like  a  woman's  heart  of  its  last  joy  robbed, 
As  she  lifted  her  boy  to  the  flag,  and  sobbed  : 
"Vive  la  France !" 

—  Charlotte  Holmes  Crawford. 


74  LORD   CREWE 


A  HARROW  GRAVE  IN  FLANDERS 

Here  in  the  marshland,  past  the  battered  bridge, 

One  of  a  hundred  grains  untimely  sown, 
Here,  with  his  comrades  of  the  hard-won  ridge 
He  rests,  unknown. 

His  horoscope  had  seemed  so  plainly  drawn. 

School  triumphs,  earned  apace  in  work  and  play ; 
Friendships  at  will ;  then  love's  delightful  dawn 
And  mellowing  day. 

Home  fostering  hope ;  some  service  to  the  State ; 

Benignant  age ;  then  the  long  tryst  to  keep 
Where  in  the  yew-tree  shadow  congregate 
His  fathers  sleep. 

Was  here  the  one  thing  needful  to  distil 

From  life's  alembic,  through  this  holier  fate. 
The  man's  essential  soul,  the  hero-will  ? 
We  ask ;  and  wait. 

—  Crewe. 


GERALD  H.    CROW  75 


WHEN  THEY  ILW'E  IMADE  AN  END 

When  they  have  made  an  end 
Of  their  importunate  crying  over  you 

"God  speed,"  and  "God  defend," 
And  time  is  swift  and  tliere  is  nought  to  do 
But  match  with  wilder  hope  our  wild  despair ; 

When  there  is  quiet,  bend 
Your  lips  to  mine,  and  in  the  darkness  there 

Wish  me  good  courage,  friend. 

—  Gerald  H.  Crow. 


76  WALTER   DE  LA   MARE 


"HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE" 

Nay,  nay,  sweet  England,  do  not  grieve ! 

Not  one  of  these  poor  men  who  died 
But  did  within  his  soul  believe 

That  death  for  thee  was  glorified. 

Ever  they  watched  it  hovering  near 
That  mystery  'yond  thought  to  plumb. 

Perchance  sometimes  in  loathed  fear 

They  heard  cold  Danger  whisper.  Come  !  — 

Heard  and  obeyed.     O,  if  thou  weep 
Such  courage  and  honor,  beauty,  care, 

Be  it  for  joy  that  those  who  sleep 
Only  thy  joy  could  share. 

—  Walter  de  la  Mare. 


JOHN   DRIXKWATER  77 


THE   DEFENDERS 

His  wage  of  rest  at  nightfall  still 

He  takes,  who  sixty  years  has  known 

Of  ploughing  over  Cotsall  hill 

And  keeping  trim  the  Cotsall  stone. 

He  meditates  the  dusk,  and  sees 
Folds  of  his  wonted  shepherdings 

And  lands  of  stubble  and  tall  trees 
Becoming  insubstantial  things. 

And  does  he  see  on  Cotsall  hill  — 
Thrown  even  to  the  central  shire  — • 

The  funnelled  shapes  forbidding  still 
The  stranger  from  his  cottage  fire  ? 

—  John  Drinkwatcr. 


78  LOUISE  DRISCOLL 


THE   METAL   CHECKS 

(The  scene  is  a  bare  room,  with  two  shaded  windows 
at  the  back,  and  a  fireplace  between  them  with  a  fire  burn- 
ing low.  The  room  is  furnished  scantily  with  a  few  plain 
chairs,  and  a  rough  wooden  table  on  which  are  piled  a  great 
many  small  wooden  trays.  The  Counter,  who  is  Death, 
sits  at  the  table.  He  wears  a  loose  gray  robe,  and  his  face 
is  partly  concealed  by  a  gray  veil.  He  does  not  look  at 
The  Bearer,  but  works  mechanically  and  speaks  in  a  monot- 
onous tone.  The  Bearer  is  the  World,  that  bears  the  bur- 
den of  War.  He  wears  a  soiled  robe  of  brown  and  green 
and  he  carries  on  his  back  a  gunny-bag  with  the  little 
metal  disks  that  have  been  used  for  the  identification  of 
the  slain  common  soldiers.) 

The  Beaeer 

Here  is  a  sack,  a  gunny  sack, 

A  heavy  sack  I  bring. 
Here  is  toll  of  many  a  soul  — 

But  not  the  soul  of  a  king. 

This  is  the  toll  of  common  men, 
Who  lived  in  the  common  way ; 

Lived  upon  bread  and  wine  and  love. 
In  the  light  of  the  common  day. 

This  is  the  toll  of  working  men, 
Blood  and  brawn  and  brain. 


LOUISE  DRISCOLL  79 

Who  shall  rciuler  us  again 
The  worth  of  all  the  slain  ? 

(As  the  Counter  speaks,  the  Bearer  pours  out  the  disks 
on  the  table.     The  Bearer  obeys  the  Counter.) 

The  Counter 

Pour  them  out  on  the  table  here. 
Clickety-clickety -clack  1 
For  every  button  a  man  went  out, 
And  who  shall  call  him  back  ? 
Clickety-clickety -clack  I 

One  —  two  —  three  —  four  — 

Every  disk  a  soul ! 
Three  score  —  four  score  — 
So  many  boys  went  out  to  war. 
Pick  up  that  one  that  fell  on  the  floor  — 

Didn't  you  see  it  roll  ? 
That  was  a  man  a  month  ago. 
This  was  a  man.     Row  upon  row  — 
Pile  them  in  tens  and  count  them  so. 

The  Bearer 

I  have  an  empty  sack. 

It  is  not  large.     Would  you  have  said 
That  I  could  carry  on  my  back 
So  great  an  army  —  and  all  dead  i* 


80  LOUISE   DRISCOLL 

(As  the  Counter  speaks  the  Bearer  lays  the  sack  over 
his  arm  and  helps  count.) 

The  Counter 

Put  a  hundred  in  each  tray  — 
We  can  tally  them  best  that  way. 
Careful  —  do  you  understand 
You  have  ten  men  in  your  hand  ? 
There's  another  fallen  —  there  — 
Under  that  chair. 
(The  Bearer  finds  it  and  restores  it.) 

That  was  a  man  a  month  ago ; 
He  could  see  and  feel  and  know. 
Then,  into  his  throat  there  sped 
A  bit  of  lead. 

Blood  was  salt  in  his  mouth ;  he  fell 
And  lay  amid  the  battle  wreck. 
Nothing  was  left  but  this  metal  check  — 
And  a  wife  and  child,  perhaps. 

(The  Bearer  finds  the  bag  on  his  arm  troublesome.     He 
holds  it  up,  inspecting  it.) 

The  Bearer 

What  can  one  do  with  a  thing  like  this  ? 

Neither  of  life  nor  death  it  is  ! 

For  the  dead  serve  not,  though  it  served  the  dead. 

The  wounds  it  carried  were  wide  and  red, 

Yet  they  stained  it  not.     Can  a  man  put  food. 


LOUISE  DRISCOLL  81 

Potatoes  or  wheat,  or  even  wood 

That  is  kind  and  burns  with  a  flame  to  warm 

Li^■ing  men  who  are  comforted  — 

In  a  thing  that  has  served  so  many  dead  ? 

There  is  no  thrift  in  a  graveyard  dress, 

It's  been  shroud  for  too  many  men. 

I'll  burn  it  and  let  the  dead  bless. 

(He  crosses  himself  and  throws  it  into  the  fire.  Ho 
watches  it  burn.  The  Counter  continues  to  pile  up 
the  metal  checks,  and  drop  them  by  hundreds  into  the 
trays,  which  he  piles  one  upon  another.  The  Bearer 
turns  from  the  fire  and  speaks  more  slowly  than  he  has 
before.     He  indicates  the  metal  checks.) 

"Would  not  the  blood  of  these  make  a  great  sea 

For  men  to  sail  their  ships  on  ?     It  may  be 

No  fish  would  swim  in  it,  and  the  foul  smell 

Would  make  the  sailors  sick.     Perhaps  in  Hell 

There's  some  such  lake  for  men  who  rush  to  war 

Prating  of  glory,  and  upon  the  shore 

Will  stand  the  wives  and  children  and  old  men 

Bereft,  to  drive  them  back  again 

\Mien  they  seek  haven.     Some  such  thing 

I  thought  the  while  I  bore  it  on  my  back 

And  heard  the  metal  pieces  clattering. 

The  Counter 

Four  score  —  fi\'c  score  — 
These  and  many  more, 
a 


82  LOUISE   DRISCOLL 

Forward  —  march  !  —  into  the  tray ! 

No  bugles  blow  to-day, 

No  captains  lead  the  way ; 

But  mothers  and  wives, 

Fathers,  sisters,  little  sons. 

Count  the  cost 

Of  the  lost ; 

And  we  count  the  unlived  lives, 

The  forever  unborn  ones 

Who  might  have  been  your  sons. 

The  Bearer 

Could  not  the  hands  of  these  rebuild 

That  which  has  been  destroyed  ? 

Oh,  the  poor  hands !   that  once  were  strong  and 

filled 
With  implements  of  labor  whereby  they 
Served  home  and  country  through  the  peaceful  day. 
When  those  who  made  the  war  stand  face  to  face 
With  these  slain  soldiers  in  that  unknown  place 
Whither  the  dead  go,  what  will  be  the  word 
By  dead  lips  spoken  and  by  dead  ears  heard  ? 
Will  souls  say  King  or  Kaiser?    Will  souls  prate 
Of  earthly  glory  in  that  new  estate  ? 

The  Counter 

One  hundred  thousand  — 

One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  — 

Two  hundred  — 


LOUISE   DRISCOLL  83 

The  Bearer 

Can  this  check  plough  ? 

Can  it  sow  ?  can  it  reap  ? 
Can  we  arouse  it  ? 

Is  it  asleep  ? 

Can  it  hear  when  a  child  cries  ?  — 

Comfort  a  wife  ? 
This  little  metal  disk 

Stands  for  a  life. 

Can  this  check  build, 

Laying  stone  upon  stone? 
Once  it  was  warm  flesh 

Folded  on  bone. 

Sinew  and  muscle  firm. 

Look  at  it  —  can 
This  little  metal  check 

Stand  for  a  man  ? 

The  Counter 

One  —  two  —  three  —  four  — 

—  Louise  Driscoll. 


84  GEOFFREY  FABER 


"FOR  THOSE  AT  SEA" 

(H.M.S.  "Aboukir,"  "Cressy,"  "Hogue,"  September  22, 
1914.) 

Now  all  our  English  woodland  sighs  "  October." 

The  mild  sun  going  down  behind  the  trees 
Doth  bless  a  countryside  as  sweet  and  sober 

As  ever  put  on  brown  and  red  to  please ; 
The    brooks    run    blood,  but    'tis    such  blood  as 
Heav'n, 

Pierced  with  light,  lets  fall  on  field  and  village ; 
England's  dear  breasts  are  still  unbruised,  unriv'n 

The  autumn  peace  on  pastureland  and  tillage. 
Dear  mother  of  us  all,  hast  thou  not  heard  ? 

Thou  knowest  how  thy  sons,  our  brothers,  died 
Of  late,  and  hast  thou  not  a  sorrowful  word  ? 

O  no  !    Thou  dost  contain  thyself  in  pride. 
Pity  suits  not  for  those,  who  guarding  thee 
Guard  more  than  their  own  lives,  for  those  at  sea. 

—  Geoffrey  Faber. 


JAMES   BERXARD   FAG  AN  85 


THE  .MAX  IX  THE  TREXCH 

Can  you  not  hear  me,  young  man  in  the  street  ? 

Is  it  nothing  to  you  who  pass  by, 

^\^lo  down  the  dim-Ut  ways  in  thousands  roam  ? 

From  here  I  watch  you,  through  the  driving  sleet, 

Under  the  evening  sky, 

Hurrs'ing  home. 

Home  I  —  how  the  word  sounds  Hke  a  bell  — 

I  wonder  can  you  know,  as  I  know  well, 

That  in  this  trench 

Of  death  and  stench 

I  stand  between  your  home  and  hell. 

I  am  the  roof  that  shields  you  from  the  weather, 
I  am  the  gate  that  keeps  the  brigand  back, 
When  pillage,  fire,  and  murder  come  together, 
I  am  the  wall  that  saves  your  home  from  sack, 
^lan  I  when  you  look  upon  the  girl  you  prize. 
Can  you  imagine  horror  in  those  eyes  ? 
You  have  not  seen,  you  cannot  understand, 
This  trench  is  England,  all  this  ruined  land 
Is  where  you  wander,  street,  or  field,  or  strand. 
Save  for  God's  grace,  and  for  the  guns  that  rest 
Upon  this  dripping  mudbank  of  the  west. 


86  JAMES  BERNARD  PAGAN 

Our  blood  has  stained  your  threshold  —  will  you 

stain 
Your  soul,  give  nothing  and  take  all  our  gain  ? 
Why  did  I  come  ?     I  ask  not,  nor  repent ; 
Something  blazed  up  inside  me,  and  I  went. 
The  khaki  fringe  is  frayed,  and  now  a  rent 
Needs  men  —  needs  men,  and  I  am  almost  spent. 
Night,   and   the   "ready"  ...  so   sleep   well,   my 

friend  .  .  . 
The  guns  again  are  going  ...  I  must  stick  it  to 

the  end. 

—  James  Bernard  Fag  an. 


AGNES  S.   FALCONER  87 


TERRITORL\LS 

Where  are  the  lads  who  went  out  to  the  war? 
This  year,  and  last  year  and  long,  long  ago  — 
With  eyes  full  of  laughter  and  song  on  their  lips  — 
(Our  sad  hearts  flew  after  as  birds  follow  ships !) 
Where  are  they  now,  do  you  knowf 

Some  sleep  in  Flanders  and  some  sleep  in  France, 
This  year,  and  last  year,  and  long  years  to  come  — 
And  under  the  rampart  that  guards  far  Stamboul 
Some  are  camped  in  a  rest  deep  and  cool. 

And  they  heed  not  the  bugle  and  drum  ! 

They'll  come,  though  not  all !    They  will  come  from 

the  war !  — 
This  year  or  next  year,  or  early  or  late  — 
And  come  well  or  wounded,  come  many  or  few, 
They  will  bring  back  their  honor,  their  faith  high 
and  true 

Or  will  hear  it  to  Paradise  Gate. 

—  Agnes  S.  Falconer. 


88  WILLIAM  DUDLEY   FOULKE 


HONOR  TO  FRANCE! 

In  peace  we  held  thy  worth  in  scant  esteem ; 

Thy  sons  were  dissolute,  thy  daughters  frail ; 
How  light  and  fair  and  fickle  didst  thou  seem 

In  time  of  need,  alas,  how  sure  to  fail ! 
But  when  war  came,  a  war  that  was  not  thine  — 

And  the  flame  seared  thee,  then  thy  heart  we 
knew. 
In  that  dark  tumult  how  thy  soul  did  shine 

Loyal  and  steadfast,  pure  and  brave  and  true. 
Nay,  thou  art  honored  even  by  the  foe. 

In  martyrdom  transformed  and  glorified  ! 
And  we  who  scorned  (how  little  did  we  know  !) 

Stripped  of  the  tattered  mantle  of  our  pride, 
Let  us  in  self-abasement  bend  the  knee 
And  pray  for  God's  grace  to  become  like  thee. 

—  William  Dudley  Foulke. 


FLORENCE  KIPER   FRAXK  89 


THE  JEWISH  CONSCRIPT 

(There  are  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  million  Jews  in  the 
Czar's  army  alone.  —  Newspaper  clipping.) 

TuEY  have  dressed  me  up  in  a  soldier's  dress, 

With  a  rifle  in  my  hand, 
And  have  sent  me  bravely  forth  to  shoot 

]\Iy  own  in  a  foreign  land. 

Oh,  many  shall  die  for  the  fields  of  their  homes, 

And  many  in  conquest  wild, 
But  I  shall  die  for  the  fatherland 

That  murdered  my  little  child. 

How  many  hundreds  of  years  ago  — 

The  nations  wax  and  cease !  — 
Did  the  God  of  our  fathers  doom  us  to  bear 

The  flaming  message  of  peace ! 

We  are  the  mock  and  the  sport  of  time  I 

Yet  why  should  I  complain  !  — 
For  a  Jew  that  they  hung  on  the  bloody  cross. 

He  also  died  in  vain. 

—  Florence  Kiper  Frank. 


90  ADJUTANT  GILBERT  FRANKAU 


HEADQUARTERS 

A  LEAGUE  and  a  league  from  the  trenches  —  from 

the  traversed  maze  of  the  Hnes, 
Where  daylong  the  sniper  watches  and  daylong  the 

bullet  whines, 
And  the  cratered  earth  is  in  travail  with  mines  and 

with  countermines  — 


Here,  where  haply  some  woman  dreamed  (are  those 

her  roses  that  bloom 
In  the  garden  beyond  the  windows  of  my  littered 

working  room  ?) 
We  have  decked  the  map  for  our  masters  as  a  bride 

is  decked  for  the  groom. 


Fair,  on  each  lettered  numbered  square  —  cross- 
road and  mound  and  wire. 

Loophole,  redoubt  and  emplacement  —  lie  the  tar- 
gets their  mouths  desire ; 

Gay  with  purples  and  browns  and  blues,  have  we 
traced  them  their  arcs  of  fire. 


ADJUTANT   GILBERT   FRAXKAU  91 

And  e\er  the  type-keys  chatter ;  and  ever  our  keen 

wires  bring 
Word  from  the  watchers  a-crouch  below,  word  from 

the  watchers  a-wing : 
And  ever  we  hear  the  distant  growl  of  our  hid  guns 

thundering. 

Hear  it  hardly,  and  turn  again  to  our  maps,  where 
the  trench-lines  crawl, 

Red  on  the  gray  and  each  with  a  sign  for  the  rang- 
ing shrapnel's  fall  — 

Snakes  that  our  masters  shall  scotch  at  dawn,  as  is 
written  here  on  the  wall. 

For  the  weeks  of  our  waiting  draw  to  a  close.  .  .  . 
There  is  scarcely  a  leaf  astir 

In  the  garden  beyond  my  windows,  where  the 
twilight  shadows  blurr 

The  blaze  of  some  woman's  roses.  .  .  .  "Bom- 
bardment orders,  sir." 

—  Gilbert  Frankau. 


92  JOHN   FREEMAN 


THE  RETURN 

I  HEARD  the  rumbling  guns.     I  saw  the  smoke, 
The  unintelhgible  shock  of  hosts  that  still, 

Far  off,  unseeing,  strove  and  strove  again ; 
And  beauty  flying  naked  down  the  hill. 

From  morn  to  eve  :  and  the  stern  night  cried  Peace ! 

And  shut  the  strife  in  darkness :  all  was  still. 
Then  slowly  crept  a  triumph  on  the  dark  — 

And  I  heard  Beauty  singing  up  the  hill. 

—  John  Freeman. 


H.    REX   F RES  TON  93 


THE  GIFT 

His  eyes  are  bright  and  eager,  with  the  brightness 
of  the  sun, 

(England,  he  gives  them  you) 
His  hands  are  strong  for  climbing  and  his  feet  are 
swift  to  run, 

(England,  he  gives  them  you) 
He  has  knowledge  of  the  meadows,  in  the  dreamy 

autumn  days, 
Tlie  brown  hill,  and  the  gold  hill,  and  the  green 
forgotten  ways, 

(But  he  leaves  them  now  for  you). 
There's  a  certain  ancient  city  where  he  once  was 
free  and  young, 

(But  he  leaves  It  now  for  you), 
Where  Oxford  tales  are  spoken,  and  Oxford  ways  are 
sung, 

(But  he  leaves  them  now  for  you) 
And  his  heart  is  often  wears',  for  that  dear  old  river 

shore. 
And  he  thinks  a  little  sadly,  of  the  days  that  come  no 
more, 

(But  he  gives  them  up  for  you). 


94  H.   REX   F RES TON 

If  his  dust  is  one  day  lying,  in  an  unfamiliar  land, 

(England,  he  went  for  you) 
Oh,  England,  sometimes  think  of  him,  of  thousands, 

only  one. 
In  the  dawning,  or  the  noonday,  or  the  setting  of 
the  sun, 

(As  once  he  thought  of  you). 
For  to  him  and  many  like  him,  there  seemed  no 
other  way 

(England,  he  asked  not  why) 
The  giving  up  of  all  things,  for  ever  and  for  aye, 

(England,  he  asked  not  why) 
And  so  he  goes  unshrinking,  from  those  dearest  paths 

of  home. 
For  he  knows,  great-hearted  England,  let  whatever 
fate  may  come 

You  will  never  let  him  die  ! 

—  H.  Rex  Freston. 
(Killed  in  action  in  France,  Jan.  24,  1916.) 


MISS    V.   H.   FRIEDLAESDER  95 


PASS0M5R 

The  doors  of  life  are  two ; 
And,  on  some  midnight  still, 
The  Lord  shall  pass  your  way,  and  do 
According  to  yom*  will. 

For,  lo,  if  your  desire 
Be  set  upon  the  hearth, 
There  He  will  kindle  you  a  fire, 
Pleasant  and  of  the  earth ; 

And  you  shall  take  delight 
For  ever  in  that  flame, 
But  not  again  shall  come  a  night 
\Mien  He  will  call  your  name. 

Or,  if  you  count  it  sin 
That  darkness  wrap  His  shrine. 
His  breath  shall  light  instead  therein 
The  spark  that  is  divine ; 

No  shelter  fnjin  the  cold, 
No  ease  it  shall  afford  — 
But  by  that  gleam  you  shall  behold 
The  glory  of  the  Lord. 


96  MISS   V.   H.   FRIEDLAENDER 

Now  choose  you !  .  .  .  nor  forget. 
Choosing  this  last  alone, 
The  blood  upon  your  lintel  set 
For  sign,  must  be  your  own. 

—  V.  H.  Friedlaender. 


G.  A.  J.   c.  97 


IRELAND 

The  Dreamers :  — 

Outpost  of  Europe,  watcher  of  the  seas, 

Bulwark  to  part  the  dark  Atlantic  tide, 
Still  in  the  sunset  lost  Hesperides 

Raise  peak  on  peak,  and  purple  galleys  glide, 
Kings  for  their  oarsmen,  queens  for  garnishing, 

Gleam  of  their  gold  that  sets  the  west  afire, 
Till  the  night  falls,  that  knows  not  any  thing. 

And  the  new  day  brings  back  the  old  desire. 

The  Mediterraneans :  — 

We  are  your  seamen,  seamen  from  the  south : 

We  sought  and  found  you  ere  the  Tyrian  sailed, 
Steered   with    glad    shouting   through   the  harbor- 
mouth. 

Parted  the  woods,  and  left  you  half  unveiled  ; 
Ours,  ours,  that  ventured  through  the  forest-bars. 

Saw  the  brown  spate  and  sweetness  of  the  glen. 
And  the  great  breasts  domed  up  against  the  stars. 

Held  you  and  loved  you ;  we  were  first  of  men. 

The  Northmen :  — 
These  were  thy  clansmen,  dark  with  sun  and  toil, 
These  knew  the  Atlas,  these  the  desert  knew. 


98  G.  A.  J.   c. 

Builders  of  homesteads,  thirsty  for  the  soil, 

Green  lands  and  droughtless,  carpeted  with  dew. 

We  that  came  after,  racing  prow  to  prow, 
Men  of  the  grey  lands,  narrowing  to  the  pole. 

Strangers  and  fair-haired  —  none  are  strangers  now ; 
We  gave  our  heart's  blood;   you  gave  us  back  a 
soul. 

The  Fighting  Line :  — 

Heart's  blood  of  our  blood,  is  the  throb  so  weak, 

Ireland,  our  Ireland,  lost  beyond  the  seas  ? 
Thousands  of  living,  nay  dead  men,  rise  and  speak. 

From  Flanders  on  to  the  ancestral  Cyclades. 
These  are  from  Ireland,  these  to  Ireland  calling. 

Look  to  the  sunrise,  shaft  on  shaft  unfurled, 
Look  to  the  light  once  more  on  Valmy  falling, 

Where  France  in  arms  first  clarioned  the  world. 

—  G.  A.  J.  C. 


LILLIAN   GARD  99 


HER  "ALLOWANCE!" 

'Er  looked  at  me  bunnet  (I  knows  'e  aint  noo  I) 
'Er  turned  up  'er  nose  at  the  patch  on  me  shoe  I 
And  'er  sez,  pointed  like,  "  Liza,  what  do  'e  do 
With  yer  'llowance?" 

'Er  looked  at  the  children  (they'm  clean  and  they'm 

neat, 
But  their  clothes  be  as  plain  as  the  victuals  they 

eat)  : 
And  'er  sez,  "Why  not  dress  'em  up  fine  for  a  treat 
With  yer  'llowance?" 

I  sees  'er  long  feather  and  trimmy-up  gown  : 
I  sez,  as  I  looks  'er  quite  square  up  and  dowTi, 
"  Do  'e  think  us  keeps  'oliday  'ere  in  the  town 
With  my  'llowance?" 

"Not  likely  !"   I  sez.     And  I  bids  'er  "Good-day  !" 
And  I  kneels  on  the  shabby  old  canvas  to  pray 
For  Bill,  who's  out  fightin'  such  brave  miles  away. 
(And  I  put  back  a  foo  o'  they  coins  for  'e  may 
Be  needin'  a  part  —  may  my  Bill  —  who  can  say  ?  — 
Of  my  'llowance !) 

—  Lillian  Gard. 


100  WILFRID   WILSON  GIBSON 


BETWEEN  THE  LINES 

When  consciousness  came  back,  he  found  he  lay 
Between  the  opposing  fires,  but  could  not  tell 
On  which  hand  were  his  friends ;  and  either  way 
For  him  to  turn  was  chancy  —  bullet  and  shell 
Whistling  and  shrieking  over  him,  as  the  glare 
Of  searchlights  scoured  the  darkness  to  blind  day. 
He  scrambled  to  his  hands  and  knees  ascare, 
Dragging  his  wounded  foot  through  puddled  clay, 
And  tumbled  in  a  hole  a  shell  had  scooped 
At  random  in  a  turnip-field  between 
The  unseen  trenches  where  the  foes  lay  cooped 
Through  that  unending  battle  of  unseen, 
Dead-locked,   league-stretching  armies;   and  quite 

spent 
He  rolled  upon  his  back  within  the  pit, 
And  lay  secure,  thinking  of  all  it  meant  — 
His  lying  in  that  little  hole,  sore  hit. 
But  living,  while  across  the  starry  sky 
Shrapnel  and  shell  went  screeching  overhead  — 
Of  all  it  meant  that  he,  Tom  Dodd,  should  lie 
Among  the  Belgian  turnips,  while  his  bed  .  .  . 
If  it  were  he,  indeed,  who'd  climbed  each  night. 
Fagged  with  the  day's  work,  up  the  narrow  stair, 


WILFRID   WILSON  GIBSON  101 

And  slipt  his  clothes  off  in  the  Cinulle-liglit, 
Too  tired  to  fold  them  neatly  on  a  chair 
The  way  his  mother 'd  taught  him  —  too  dog-tired 
After  the  long  day's  serving  in  the  shop, 
Inquiring  what  each  customer  required, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop  .  .  . 

And  now  for  fourteen  days  and  nights,  at  least. 
He  hadn't  had  his  clothes  off,  and  had  lain 
In  muddy  trenches,  napping  like  a  beast 
With  one  eye  open,  under  sun  and  rain 
And  that  unceasing  hell-fire  .  .  . 

It  was  strange 
IIow  things  turned  out  —  the  chances  !   You'd  just 

got 
To  take  your  luck  in  life,  you  couldn't  change 
Your  luck. 

And  so  here  he  was  lying  shot 
WTio  just  six  months  ago  had  thought  to  spend 
His  days  behind  a  counter.     Still,  perhaps  .  .  . 
And  now,  God  only  knew  how  he  would  end  1 

He'ld  like  to  know  how  many  of  the  chaps 
Had  won  back  to  the  trench  alive,  when  he 
Had  fallen  wounded  and  been  left  for  dead. 
If  any  !  .  .  . 

This  was  different,  certainly, 
From  selling  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread 


102  WILFRID   WILSON   GIBSON 

And  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread  and  knots 
Of  tape  and  reels  of  thread  and  knots  of  tape, 
Day  in,  day  out,  and  answering  "  Have  you  got"s 
And  "Do  you  keep"s,  till  there  seemed  no  escape 
From  everlasting  serving  in  a  shop. 
Inquiring  what  each  customer  required, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop. 
With  swollen  ankles,  tired  .  .  . 

But  he  was  tired 
Now.     Every  bone  was  aching,  and  had  ached 
For     fourteen     days     and     nights    in    that    wet 

trench  — 
Just  duller  when  he  slept  than  when  he  waked  — 
Crouching  for  shelter  from  the  steady  drench 
Of  shell  and  shrapnel  .  .  . 

That  old  trench,  it  seemed 
Almost  like  home  to  him.     He'd  slept  and  fed 
And  sung  and  smoked  in  it,  while  shrapnel  screamed 
And  shells  went  whining  harmless  overhead  — 
Harmless,  at  least,  as  far  as  he  .  .  . 

But  Dick  — 
Dick  hadn't  found  them  harmless  yesterday. 
At  breakfast,  when  he'd  said  he  couldn't  stick 
Eating  dry  bread,  and  crawled  out  the  back  way, 
And  brought  them  butter  in  a  lordly  dish  — 
Butter  enough  for  all,  and  held  it  high, 
Yellow  and  fresh  and  clean  as  you  could  wish  — 
When  plump  upon  the  plate  from  out  the  sky 


WILFRID   WILSON  GIBSON  103 

A  shell  fell  bursting  .  .  .  \Miere  the  butter  went, 
God  only  knew !  .  .  . 

And  Dick  ...  lie  dared  not  think 
Of  what  had  come  to  Dick  ...  or  what  it  meant  — 

The  shrieking  and  the  whistling  and  the  stink 
He'd  lived  in  fourteen  days  and  nights.     'Twas  luck 
That  he  still  lived  .  .  .  And  queer  how  little  then 
He  seemed  to  care  that  Dick  .  .  .  Perhaps  'twas 

pluck 
That  hardened  him  —  a  man  among  the  men  — 
Perhaps  .  .  .  Yet,  only  think  things  out  a  bit. 
And  he  was  rabbit-li\xTed,  blue  with  funk ! 
And  he'd  liked  Dick  .  .  .  and  yet  when  Dick  was 

hit, 
He  hadn't  turned  a  hair.     The  meanest  skunk 
He  should  have  thought  would  feel  it  when  his  mate 
Was  blown  to  smithereens  —  Dick,  proud  as  punch, 
Grinning  like  sin,  and  holding  up  the  plate  — 
But  he  had  gone  on  munching  his  dry  hunch, 
Unwinking,  till  he  swallowed  the  last  crumb. 

Perhaps  'twas  just  because  he  dared  not  let 
His  mind  run  upon  Dick,  who'd  been  his  chum. 
He  dared  not  now,  though  he  could  not  forget. 

Dick  took  his  luck.     And,  life  or  death,  'twas  luck 
From  first  to  last ;  and  you'd  just  got  to  trust 


104  WILFRID   WILSON  GIBSON 

Your  luck  and  grin.     It  wasn't  so  much  pluck 
As  knowing  that  you'd  got  to,  when  needs  must, 
And  better  to  die  grinning  .  .  . 

Quiet  now 
Had  fallen  on  the  night.     On  either  hand 
The  guns  were  quiet.     Cool  upon  his  brow 
The  quiet  darkness  brooded,  as  he  scanned 
The  starry  sky.     He'd  never  seen  before 
So  many  stars.     Although,  of  course,  he'd  known 
That  there  were  stars,  somehow  before  the  war 
He'd  never  realised  them  —  so  thick-sown. 
Millions  and  millions.     Serving  in  the  shop. 
Stars  didn't  count  for  much ;  and  then  at  nights 
Strolling  the  pavements,  dull  and  fit  to  drop, 
You  didn't  see  much  but  the  city  lights. 
He'd  never  in  his  life  seen  so  much  sky 
As  he'd  seen  this  last  fortnight.     It  was  queer 
The  things  war  taught  you.     He'd  a  mind  to  try 
To  count  the  stars  —  they  shone  so  bright  and  clear. 
One,  two,  three,  four  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  but  he  was 

tired  .  .  . 
Five,  six,  seven,  eight  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  was  number  eight. 
And  what  was  the  next  thing  that  she  required  ? 
(Too  bad  of  customers  to  come  so  late. 
At  closing-time  !)     Again  within  the  shop 
He  handled  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread. 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop  .  .  . 


WILFRID   WILSOX   GIBSON  105 

\Mieiice  once  again  the  whole  sky  overhead 

Flared  blind  with  searchlights,  and  the  shriek  of 

shell 
And  scream  of  shrapnel  roused  him.     Drowsily 
He  stared  about  him  wondering.     Then  he  fell 
Into  deep  dreamless  slumber. 

4c  4=  ^  4:  *  *  * 

He  coukl  see 
Two  dark  eyes  peeping  at  him,  ere  he  knew 
He  was  awake,  and  it  again  was  day  — 
An  August  morning  burning  to  clear  blue. 
The  frightened  rabbit  scuttled  .  .  . 

!  Far  away, 

A  sound  of  firing  ...  Up  there,  in  the  sky 
Big  dragon-flies  hung  hovering  .  .  .  Snowballs  burst 
About  them  .  .  . 

Flies  and  snowballs  !  With  a  cry 
He  crouched  to  watch  the  airmen  pass  —  the  first 
That  he'd  seen  under  fire.  Lord,  that  was  pluck  — 
Shells  bursting  all  about  them  —  and  what  nerve ! 
Thev  took  their  chance,  and  trusted  to  their  luck. 
At  such  a  dizzy  height  to  dip  and  swerve. 
Dodging  the  shell-fire  .  .  . 

Hell !  but  one  was  hit, 
And  tumbling  like  a  pigeon,  plump  .  .  . 

Thank  Heaven, 
It  righted,  and  then  turned ;   and  after  it 
The  whole  flock  followed  safe  —  four,  five,  sLx,  seven. 


106  WILFRID   WILSON  GIBSON 

Yes,  they  were  all  there  safe.     He  hoped  they'ld  win 
Back  to  their  lines  in  safety.    They  deserved, 
Even  if  they  were  Germans  .  .  .  'Twas  no  sin 
To  wish  them  luck.     Think  how  that  beggar  swerved 
Just  in  the  nick  of  time ! 

He,  too,  must  try 
To  win  back  to  the  lines,  though,  likely  as  not, 
He'ld  take  the  wrong  turn  :  but  he  couldn't  lie 
Forever  in  that  hungry  hole  and  rot. 
He'd  got  to  take  his  luck,  to  take  his  chance 
Of  being  sniped  by  foes  or  friends.     He'ld  be 
With  any  luck  in  Germany  or  France 
Or  Kingdom-come,  next  morning  .  .  , 

Drearily 
The  blazing  day  burnt  over  him.     Shot  and  shell 
Whistling  and  whining  ceaselessly.     But  light 
Faded  at  last,  and  as  the  darkness  fell 
He  rose,  and  crawled  away  into  the  night. 

—  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson. 


FRAXKLIX   H.    GIDDIXGS  107 


ULTIMATE  HELL 

Satax?     lam. 

The  Other  One  ?     "  The  Great  I  am  "  ? 
Who  knows?     IMillenniums  ago 
Some  rumor  ran  that  He  existed  yet ! 
I  half  believed  it  true,  as  loath  to  think 
That  He'd  outwitted  me,  or  suffered  harm 
To  rob  me  of  a  thrill.     Eternity 
Is  deadly  now,  I  own. 

His  name,  you  say,  was  God. 

As  I  recall,  it  was.     Priests  mumbled  it. 

And  cutthroats  bawled  it  for  an  oath, 

Then,  all  at  once,  the  priests  began  to  think, 

And  ceased  to  pray. 

'Twas  quite  the  oddest  thing  that  I  have  known. 

And  mv  dear  Foe  became  thenceforth  a  mvth, 

Or  faded,  like  the  morning  cloud,  with  man's 

Immortal  hope  (poor  Tyndall's,  eke,  whose  word 

I'll  not  forget)  into  the  azure  past. 

WTiat  of  my  kingdom  now  ? 

I  have  no  kingdom  now.     Long  time  ago 

I  tired  of  kings,  as  God  in  His  day  tired. 


108  FRANKLIN  H.   GIDDINGS 

They  were  too  boist'roiis  in  their  wickedness, 

Too  bloody  and  uncouth.     They  weren't  well  bred. 

I  heard  the  last  of  them 

Reigned  somewhere  on  the  Baltic  Sea, 

A  sodden  HohenzoUern  prince, 

Descended  from  that  self-drunk  one 

Who  made  a  War  —  the  only  war 

That  lately  I  had  cared  about. 

It  promised  well,  but  soon  went  wrong. 
Ten  million  men,  yea,  twice  ten  million  men. 
Swarmed  forth  to  fight  for  what  they  called  ideals : 
From  Belgium's  mills  and  mines,  from  England's 

marts. 
From  fairest  France  and  sun-warm  Italy, 
From  Serbia  and  the  Russian  steppe,  to  fight 
For  Right !    Oh  God  !   (old  habits  rise  in  me) 
For  Liberty  !    They  left  their  little  ones, 
Their  wives,  their  gold !    They  flung  away  their 

lives 
As  storms  throw  pearls  of  rain.     They  wearied  me ! 
They  were  too  much  like  Christ,  the  crazy  one. 
Who  died  forgiving  all,  and  took  a  thief 
With  him  to  Paradise. 

And  so  there  is  no  Hell  ?     I'll  not  say  that. 
The  name  is  out  of  date,  but  things  sometimes 
Survive  their  names,  as  names  so  oft  live  on 


FRANKLIX   H.    GIDDINGS  109 

When  thinijs  and  men  are  dead.     There  is  a  land 

That  once  was  dedicate  to  Liberty  : 

A  land  that  cast  off  kings  and  set  slaves  free. 

But  when  it  gathered  wealth,  and  fame,  and  power. 

And  could  have  struck  the  blow  that  might  have 

saved 
Throughout  the  world  the  things  for  which  men 

died, 
The  things  for  which  long  rows  of  graves  were  made, 
It  would  not  strike. 

It  let  its  own  go  gurgling  down  to  death. 
And  did  not  smite. 

Self-made,  self-damned,  self-governing. 

It  hammers  now,  and  smelts ; 

And  ever,  as  it  pounds,  it  sings, 

This  Tubal  Cain  —  of  Peace ! 

And  golden  dollars  jingle  in  the  song, 

Beneath  a  sulphuring  sky  it  dwells  —  at  peace  — 

In  riveless  unity  of  self-content. 

I'm  growing  old?     I  do  not  relish  quite 

The  modern  way,  a  Democratic  Hell  ? 

I'm  growing  old  ?     I  wonder  if  I  sometimes  wish 

That  God  would  come  again  ! 

—  Franldiii  II.  Giddings. 
New  York,  December  5,  1915. 


110  BERNARD  GILBERT 


"I  HAVE  NO  RING" 

I  WATCH  and  listen  with  a  dreadful  fear, 
I  wait  and  long  and  tremble  in  a  breath ; 
Though  he  is  gone  to  fight,  yet  is  he  near ; 
I  have  him  always  though  he  meet  with  Death : 
In  the  lone  night  time  when  my  eyes  are  dim 
I  cry  with  terror,  yet  my  heart  will  sing ; 
I  long,  I  long  with  sickness,  yet  with  dread  : 
My  fear  is  double  —  more,  far  more,  for  him 
Who  not  yet  lives  than  him  who  may  be  dead : 
I  carry  that  which  masters  everything  : 
And  yet  —  to  have  his  face  and  not  his  name, 
To  be  so  loved,  so  longed  for,  yet  —  my  shame  ! 
Gladness  and  dread  alike  my  love  to  sting.  .  .  . 
I  bear  his  burden  —  but  —  I  have  no  ring. 

—  Bernard  Gilbert. 


VIOLET  GILLESPIE  111 


THE  DEAD 

TO    ONE    KILLED    IX    ACTIOX 

Dear  love,  they  say  thou  art  at  rest. 
I  heed  them  not,  though  thou  art  long, 
Dreaming  that  thou,  with  heart  still  strong 

For  fighting,  followest  some  far  quest. 

They  say,  dear  heart,  I  must  forget. 

Nay,  though  the  agony  be  deep, 

That  memory  can  never  sleep. 
Thy  passioned  kisses  linger  yet. 

They  say,  dear  love,  the  daisies  blithe 
Shall  o'er  thy  head  in  summer  spring. 
Daisies  !  ...  I  see  thy  body  swing 

Lithe  and  strong-lhnbed,  above  the  scythe. 

Dear  love,  they  say  that  in  the  light 
Of  Heaven's  joy  our  souls  shall  meet. 
Dear  God !     I  want  thee  now,  the  sweet 

Sight  of  thee  —  not  in  Heaven  —  to-night ! 

—  ]^iolet  Gillespie. 


112  RICHARD  BUTLER  GLAENZER 


SURE,  IT'S  FUN! 

What  fun  to  be  a  soldier  ! 


—  Everykid. 


Sure,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier  !    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun. 
Upon  an  iron  shoulder-blade  to  tote  a  feather  gun ; 
To  hike  with   other  brave  galoots   in  easy-going 

army-boots ; 
To  pack  along  a  one-ounce  sack,  the  commissary  on 

your  track ; 
To  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  to  a  right-and-ready  camp  ! 
Fun?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

Yes,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  loaf  along  a  level  road  beneath  a  cloudless  sun 
Or  over  fields  of  golden  grain,  kept  cool  by  puffs  of 

wind  and  rain ; 
Then  richly,  more-than-fully,  fed,  to  stretch  upon  a 

downy  bed 
And   sleep,    sleep,   sleep,   while   the   stay-at-homes 

weep ! 
Fun  ?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son  ! 

Oh,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !    Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun. 
To  catch  the  silly  enemy  and  get  'em  on  the  run ; 


RICHARD  BUTLER   GLAENZER  113 

To  here  and  there  blow  off  a  head  with  just  a  bit  of 

chuckling  lead ; 
To   bayonet   a   foolish   bloke   at   hide-and-seek   in 

trench  and  smoke ; 
To  shoot,  shoot,  shoot,  till  they've  got  no  legs  to 

scoot ! 
Fun  ?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son ! 

God,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier  !     Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  lie  out  still  and  easy  when  your  day's  sport's 

done; 
With  not  a  thing  to  worry  for,  nor  anything  to 

hurry  for ; 
Not  hungry,  thirsty,  tired,  but  a  hero  much-admired. 
Just  dead,  dead,  dead,  like  Jack  and  Bill  and  Fred ! 
Fun?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

—  Richard  Butler  Glaenzer. 


114  GREGG  GODDARD 


THE  AIRMAN 

Wild  wind,  and  drear,  beneath  the  pale  stars  blow- 
ing, 

Whom  do  you  hunt  to-night  ? 
Out  of  the  west  into  the  storm-cloud  glowing 

A  biplane  wings  her  flight. 

In  the  grey  day-dawn  was  there  no  returning, 

No  homewards  for  the  dead  :  — 
Only  a  broken  wing,  a  biplane  burning, 

A  shattered  airship  shed  ! 

O  Nation  proud,  on  whose  red  altar  gladly 

One  more  young  Life  is  laid. 
Scatter  the  news  —  flutter  the  posters  madly  — 

"Triumph  of  British  raid!" 

What    of   the    Cross   they    brought    to    her  —  his 
Mother? 
Wanly  her  dumb  lips  smiled. 
Then   whispered :     "  Give   back    him  —  I    had    no 
other  — 
My  Son  —  my  only  child." 

—  Gregg  Goddard. 


ALFRED   PERCEVAL  GRAVES  115 


BROTHERS  IN  ARMS 

When  behind  her  violated  border, 

With  unflinching  bayonet  and  gun, 
Belgium,  in  heroic  battle  order, 
I    Met  the  savage  onset  of  the  Hun ; 
^Mien  o'er  league  on  league  of  peaceful  tillage, 

Under  screaming  showers  of  shot  and  shell, 
Into  open  town,  defenceless  village, 

He  let  loose  his  shameless  hounds  of  Hell ; 
\Mien  Liege,  henceforth  a  name  immortal ! 

Perished  fighting  at  his  cannons'  mouth, 
\Mien  he  seized  Namur,  and  through  her  portal, 

Drunk  with  fur>-,  still  went  surging  south  ; 
\Mien  with  murderous  rapine  still  unsated, 

Sworn  to  bend  them  to  his  bloody  yoke, 
On  the  French  and  British  Arms  belated 

Wave  on  wave  his  braggart  legions  broke; 
WTien,  outmarched  before  him,  into  distance, 

Frank  and  Briton  steadfastly  withdrew, 
Though  he  could  not  pierce  our  proud  resistance, 

Break  our  firm-linked,  friendly  phalanx  through ; 

Then  our  country,  roused  to  righteous  reason 
By  the  battle-thunder  at  her  gate, 


116      ALFRED   PERCEVAL  GRAVES 


Flung  abroad  no  foolish  cry  of  treason 
At  the  Rulers  of  her  arms  and  State  — 

Pardoned  those  whose  eyes  were  proven  blinder 
Than  was  Wisdom  to  the  approach  of  war  — 

Put  her  unpreparedness  behind  her, 
Only  bade  us  look,  henceforth,  before. 

Therefore,  every  cry  of  party  faction 

Into  patriot  silence  fell  away ; 
Britain  summoned  all  her  sons  to  action  — 

Suffering  Britain  —  could  we  but  obey  ? . 

Then  the  adamantine  cable  stretching, 

Python-like  across  the  ocean  floor. 
Aid  on  aid  from  her  far  children  fetching. 

Bade  her  heart  with  hope  beat  high  once  more ; 
Till  the  friends  and  foes  whose  fine  derision 

Long  had  flouted  her  Imperial  dream, 
Stood  at  gaze  to  mark  the  stately  vision 

Rise  incarnate  o'er  the  ocean  stream  ; 
Marvelling,  while  above  the  pine-fringed  waters, 

While  above  the  palm-set  Austral  earth 
At  their  Mother's  call,  her  mighty  daughters, 

Sprang,  as  Pallas  sprang,  full-armed  to  birth ; 
While,  O  proudest  Page  in  all  the  story 

Of  Imperial  India's  book  of  life  ! 
One  by  one  each  Princely  Feudatory 

In  our  service  arms  him  for  the  strife. 


ALFRED   PERCEVAL  GRAVES  117 

Our  retreat  is  stayed,  and  Frank  and  Briton, 

Reinforced,  leap  forth  to  the  attack  — 
Now  the  smiter  hip  and  thiijh  is  smitten  ; 

In  defeat  we  roll  him  roii<::hly  hack. 
Now  again  in  anger  dour  he  rallies. 

And  again  assaults  us  flank  and  front ; 
^^^lile  his  dead  and  ours  o'er  hills  and  valleys 

ML\  amid  the  dreadful  battle  brunt. 
Up  the  slopes  his  batteries  are  crowning. 

Foot  by  foot  we  dig  our  trenches  in ; 
Rise  and  charge  and  seize  his  cannon  frowning, 

Though  we  fall  in  swaths  one  gun  to  win. 
Trusting  sureh'  that  how  oft  soever 

Back  and  forth  War's  crimson  waves  may  flow. 
On  our  faithful,  chivalrous  endeavor 

Victory's  full-orbed  sun  at  last  shall  glow. 

—  Alfred  Perceval  Graves. 


118  JULIAN  GRENFELL 


INTO  BATTLE 

The  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 
And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 

Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 
And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze ; 

And  Life  is  Color  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these ; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight ; 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth ; 
Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run. 

And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth ; 
And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done. 

Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship. 

The  Dog-Star  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend ; 


J  U  LI  AX  GRENFELL  119 

They  gently  speak  in  the  wind}'  weather ; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridges'  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day, 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night, 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  thej', 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,     Brother,  brother, 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing, 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another ; 
Brother,  sing." 

In  dreary  doubtful  waiting  hours, 

Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts, 
The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers ; 

O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts ! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks, 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind, 

And  only  Joy-of-Battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind, 

Through  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know, 
Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 


120  JULIAN  GRENFELL 

The  thundering  Hne  of  battle  stands, 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings ; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands. 

And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

—  Julian  Grenfell. 
Flanders,  April,  1915. 

Captain  the  Hon.  Julian  Henry  Francis  Grenfell,  D.S.O., 
of  the  1st  (Royal)  Dragoons,  was  wounded  in  the  trenches 
in  front  of  Ypres  on  May  13,  and  died  in  hospital  at 
Boulogne  on  May  26,  1915.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of 
Lord  Desborough,  by  whose  consent  the  poem  is  here 
reprinted.  Lord  Desborough  writes:  "Not  many  men 
would  have  knocked  out  two  professional  boxers  and 
written  those  verses  in  one  week." 


NORA   GRIFFITHS  121 


THE  ^^TKIT A:\risT 

In  the  wake  of  the  yellow  sunset  one  pale  star 
Hangs  over  the  darkening  city's  purple  haze. 
An  errand-boy  in  the  street  beneath  me  plays 
On  a  penny  whistle.     Very  faint  and  far 
Comes  the  scroop  of  tortured  gear  on  a  battered  car. 
A  hyacinth  nods  pallid  blooms  on  the  window  sill, 
Swayed  by  the  tiny  wind.     St.  Catherine's  Hill 
Is  a  place  of  mystery,  a  land  of  dreams. 
The  tramp  of  soldiers,  barrack-marching,  seems 
A  thing  remote,  untouched  b>'  fate  or  time. 
...     A  year  ago  you  heard  Cathedral's  chime, 
You  hurried  up  to  books  —  a  year  ago  ; 
—  Shouted  for  "Houses"  in  New  Field  below. 
.  .  .     You  .  .  .  "died  of  wounds"  .  .  .  they  told 
me 

.  .  .  yet  your  feet 
Pass  with  the  others  down  the  twilit  street. 

—  Nora  Griffiths. 


122  HERMANN  HAGEDORN 


THE  PYRES 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night ! 

And  the  roaring  yellow  and  red. 
Trooper,  trooper,  why  so  white  ? 

We  are  out  to  gather  our  dead. 
We  have  brought  dry  boughs  from  the  bloody  wood 

And  the  torn  hill-side ; 
We  have  felled  great  trunks,  wet  with  blood 

Of  brothers  that  died  ; 
We  have  piled  them  high  for  a  flaming  bed, 
Hemlock  and  ash  and  pine  for  a  bed, 
A  throne  in  the  night,  a  throne  for  a  bed  — 
And  we  go  to  gather  our  dead. 

There  where  the  oaks  loom,  dark  and  high, 

Over  the  sombre  hill. 

Body  on  body,  cold  and  still. 
Under  the  stars  they  lie. 
There  where  the  silver  river  runs. 

Careless  and  calm  as  fate, 
Mowed,  mowed  by  the  terrible  guns, 

The  stricken  brothers  wait. 
There  by  the  smoldering  house,  and  there 
Where  the  red  smoke  hangs  on  the  heavy  air. 


HERMANN   HAGEDORN  123 

Under  the  ruins,  under  the  hedge, 
Cheek  by  cheek  at  the  forest-edge ; 
Back  to  breast,  three  men  deep, 

Hearing  not  bugle  or  drum. 
In  the  desperate  trench  they  died  to  keep. 
Under  the  starry  dome  they  sleep, 

Murmuring,  "Brothers,  come!" 

This  way  !     I  heard  a  call 

Like  a  stag's  when  he  dies. 
Under  the  willows  I  saw  him  fall. 

Under  the  willows  he  lies. 
Give  me  your  hand.     Raise  him  up. 

Lift  his  head.     Strike  a  light. 
This  morning  we  shared  a  crust  and  a  cup. 

He  wants  no  supper  to-night. 
Take  his  feet.     Here  the  shells 

Broke  all  day  long, 
Moaning  and  shrieking  hell's 

Bacchanalian  song ! 
Last  night  he  helped  me  bear 

i\Ien  to  hell's  feting. 
To-morrow,  maybe,  somewhere, 

We,  too,  shall  lie  waiting. 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night ! 
Weary  and  sick  and  dumb, 


124  HERMANN  HAGEDORN 

Under  the  jQickering,  faint  starlight 
The  drooping  gleaners  come. 

Out  of  the  darkness,  dim 
Shadowy  shadow-bearers. 

Dragging  into  the  bale-fire's  rim 
Pallid  death-farers. 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night  1 

In  the  plain,  on  the  hill. 
No  volleys  for  their  last  rite. 

We  need  om*  powder  —  to  kill. 
High  on  their  golden  bed, 
Pile  up  the  dead  ! 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night ! 

Torches,  piercing  the  gloom  ! 
Look !     How  the  sparks  take  flight  I 

Stars,  stars,  make  room  ! 

Smoke,  that  was  bone  and  blood  ! 

Hark !    The  deep  roar. 
It  is  the  souls  telling  God 

The  glory  of  war  ! 

—  Hermann  Hagedorn. 


CICELY  HAMILTOX  125 


NOX-COMBATAXT 

Before  one  drop  of  angry  blood  was  shed 
I  was  sore  hurt  and  beaten  to  my  knee ; 

Before  one  fighting  man  reeled  back  and  died 
The  War-Lords  struck  at  me. 

They  struck  me  down  —  an  idle,  useless  mouth, 
As  cumbrous  —  nay,  more  cumbrous  —  than  the 
dead, 

Witli  life  and  heart  afire  to  give  and  give 
I  take  a  dole  instead. 

With  life  and  heart  afire  to  give  and  give 

I  take  and  eat  the  bread  of  charity. 
In  all  the  length  of  all  this  eager  land, 

No  man  has  need  of  me. 

That  is  my  hurt  —  my  burning,  beating  wound  ; 

That  is  the  spear-thrust  driven  through  my  pride  ! 
With  aimless  hands,  and  mouth  that  must  be  fed, 

I  wait  and  stand  aside. 

Let  me  endure  it,  then,  with  stiffened  lip : 

I,  even  I,  have  suffered  in  the  strife  I 
Let  me  endure  it  then  —  I  give  my  pride 

Where  others  give  a  life.        _  (^i^^i^  Hamilton. 


126  THOMAS  HARDY 


"MEN  WHO  MARCH  AWAY" 

SONG   OF   THE    SOLDIERS 

What  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away 

Ere  the  barn-cocks  say 

Night  is  growing  gray, 
To  hazards  whence  no  tears  can  win  us ; 
What  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away  ? 

Is  it  a  purbHnd  prank,  O  think  you. 
Friend  with  the  musing  eye 
Who  watch  us  stepping  by. 
With  doubt  and  dolorous  sigh  ? 

Can  much  pondering  so  hoodwink  you ! 

Is  it  a  purbhnd  prank,  O  think  you. 
Friend  with  the  musing  eye  ? 

Nay.     We  see  well  what  we  are  doing, 

Though  some  may  not  see  — 

Dalliers  as  they  be !  — 

England's  need  are  we ; 
Her  distress  would  set  us  rueing  : 
Nay.     We  see  well  what  we  are  doing, 

Though  some  may  not  see ! 


THOMAS  HARDY  127 

In  our  heart  of  hearts  believmg 

\'ictory  crowns  the  just, 

And  that  braggarts  must 

Surely  bite  the  dust, 
March  we  to  the  field  ungrieving, 
In  our  heart  of  hearts  beHevmg 

Victory  crowns  the  just. 

Hence  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away 

Ere  the  barn-cocks  say 

Night  is  growing  gray, 
To  hazards  whence  no  tears  can  win  us ; 
Hence  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away. 

—  Thomas  Hardy. 


128  H.    C.   HARWOOD 


FROM  THE  YOUTH  OF  ALL  NATIONS 

Think  not,  my  elders,  to  rejoice 

When  from  the  nations'  wreck  we  rise, 

With  a  new  thunder  in  our  voice 
And  a  new  Hghtning  in  our  eyes. 

You  called  with  patriotic  sneers, 
And  drums  and  sentimental  songs. 

We  came  from  out  the  vernal  years 
Thus  bloodily  to  right  your  wrongs. 

The  sins  of  many  centuries, 

Sealed  by  your  indolence  and  fright. 

Have  earned  us  these  our  agonies : 
The  thunderous  appalling  night 

When  from  the  lurid  darkness  came 
The  pains  of  poison  and  of  shell. 

The  broken  heart,  the  world's  ill-fame, 
The  lonely  arrogance  of  hell. 

Faintly,  as  from  a  game  afar. 

Your  wrangles  and  your  patronage 

Come  drifting  to  the  work  of  war 
Which  you  have  made  our  heritage. 


H.   C.   HARWOOD  129 

Oh,  chide  us  not.     Not  ours  the  crime. 

Oh,  praise  us  not.     It  is  not  won, 
The  fight  which  we  shall  make  subUme 

Beneath  an  unaccustomed  sun. 

The  simple  world  of  childhood  fades 
Beyond  the  Styx  that  all  have  passed ; 

This  is  a  novel  land  of  shades, 
^^^le^ein  no  ancient  glories  last. 

A  land  of  desolation,  blurred 

By  mists  of  penitence  and  woe, 
Wliere  everv'  hope  must  be  deferred 

And  every  river  backward  flow. 

Not  on  this  grey  and  ruined  plain 

Shall  we  obedient  recall 
Your  cities  to  rebuild  again 

For  their  inevitable  fall. 

We  kneel  at  no  ancestral  shrine. 

With  admirable  blasphemy 
We  desecrate  the  old  divine 

And  dream  a  new  eternity. 

Destroy  the  history  of  men, 

The  weary  cycle  of  decay. 
We  shall  not  pass  that  way  again. 

We  tread  a  new  untrodden  way. 


130  H.   C.   HARWOOD 

Though  scattered  wider  yet  our  youth 

On  every  sea  and  continent. 
There  shall  come  bitter  with  the  truth 

A  fraction  of  the  sons  you  sent. 

When  slowly  with  averted  head, 
Some  darkly,  some  with  halting  feet, 

And  bowed  with  mourning  for  the  dead 
We  walk  the  cheering,  fluttering  street, 

A  music  terrible,  austere 

Shall  rise  from  our  returning  ranks 
To  change  your  merriment  to  fear, 

And  slay  upon  your  lips  your  thanks ; 

And  on  the  brooding  weary  brows 
Of  stronger  sons,  close  enemies. 

Are  writ  the  ruin  of  your  house 
And  swift  usurping  dynasties. 

—  H.  C.  Harwood. 


MAURICE   HEWLETT  131 


SOLDIER,  SOLDIER 

Soldier,  soldier,  off  to  the  war. 

Take  me  a  letter  to  my  sweetheart  O. 

He's  gone  away  to  France 

With  his  carbine  and  his  lance, 

And  a  lock  of  brown  hair  of  his  sweetheart  0. 

Fair  maid  of  London,  happy  may  you  be 

To  know  so  much  of  your  sweetheart  O. 

There's  not  a  handsome  lad, 

To  get  the  chance  he's  had. 

But  would  skip,  with  a  kiss  for  his  sweetheart  0. 

Soldier,  soldier,  whatever  shall  I  do 

If  the  cruel  Germans  take  my  sweetheart  0? 

They'll  pen  him  in  the  jail 

And  starve  him  thin  and  pale, 

With  never  a  kind  word  from  his  sweetheart  0. 

Fair  maid  of  London,  is  that  all  you  see 

Of  the  lad  you've  taken  for  your  sweetheart  0  ? 

He'll  make  his  prison  ring 

With  his  God  Save  the  King 

And  his  God  bless  the  blue  eyes  of  my  sweetheart  O I 


132  MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Soldier,  soldier,  if  by  shot  or  shell 

They  wound  him,  my  dear  lad,  my  sweetheart  O, 

He'll  lie  bleeding  in  the  rain 

And  call  me,  all  in  vain. 

Crying  for  the  fingers  of  his  sweetheart  O. 

Pretty  one,  pretty  one,  now  take  a  word  from  me  : 

Don't  you  grudge  the  life-blood  of  your  sweetheart  O. 

For  you  must  understand 

He  gives  it  to  our  land. 

And  proud  should  fly  the  colors  of  his  sweetheart  O. 

Soldier,  soldier,  my  heart  is  growing  cold  — 

If  a  German  shot  kill  my  sweetheart  0 ! 

I  could  not  lift  my  head 

If  my  dear  love  lay  dead 

With  his  wide  eyes  waiting  for  his  sweetheart  0. 

Poor  child,  poor  child,  go  to  church  and  pray, 

Pray  God  to  spare  you  your  sweetheart  O. 

But  if  he  live  or  die 

The  English  flag  must  fly. 

And  England  take  care  of  his  sweetheart  O ! 

—  Maurice  Hewlett. 


XORAH   M.   HOLLA XD  133 


APRIL  IX  ENGLAND 

April  in  England.     Daffodils  are  growing 
By  every  wayside,  golden,  tall  and  fair ; 

April  —  and  all  the  little  winds  are  blowing 
The  scents  of  springtime  through  the  sunny  air. 

April  in  England,     God,  that  we  were  there. 

April  in  England.     And  her  sons  are  l>ing 

On  these  red  fields  and  dreaming  of  her  shore ; 

April  —  we  hear  the  thrushes'  songs  replying 
Each  unto  each,  above  the  cannons'  roar. 

April  in  England.     Shall  we  see  it  more? 

April  in  England.     There's  the  cuckoo  calling 

Down  in  her  meadows,  where  the  cowslip  gleams, 

April  —  and  little  showers  are  softly  falling, 
Dimpling  the  surface  of  her  babbling  streams. 

April  in  England.     How  the  shrapnel  screams. 

April  in  England.     Blood  and  dust  and  smother, 

Screaming  of  horses,  men  in  agony, 
April  —  full  many  of  thy  sons,  O  Mother, 

Never  again  those  dewy  dawns  shall  see 
April  in  England.     God  keep  England  free. 

—  Nurah  M.  Holland. 


134  LIEUT.   DYNELEY  HUSSEY 


THINGS  THAT  WERE  YOURS 

These  things  were  yours,  these  Httle  simple  things ; 
You  touched  them,  used  them  one  time,  loved 
them  well. 
Now  you  are  gone,  but  still  about  them  clings 

The  fragrance  of  your  hands  adorable. 
These  childish  books ;    these  learned  works  well- 
thumbed  ; 
These    time-stained    prints;     these    comfortable 
chairs ; 
This  music,  and  this  album  where  you  gummed 
Your  childhood's  treasure ;  these  Italian  jars; 
This  little  cup  blue-patterned ;  this  old  bed  ; 

These  sheets  that  whitely  wrapt  you  slumbering ; 

These  garden-walks  and  autumn-tinted  trees, 
That  knew  your  laughter,  and  past  numbering 
These  blades  of  grass  that  bent  beneath  your  tread  : 
Because  they  once  were  yours,  I  love  all  these. 

—  Dyneley  Hussey. 
(Lieut.,  13th  Bn.  Lancashire  Fusihers.) 


J.  //.  5.  135 


JOAX  OF  FRANCE  TO  AX  EXGLISH  SISTER 

1.  ?*I.     Editu  Cavell,  nurse 

" Pitie  que  estoit  au  royaume  de  France'* 

Pity  had  I  for  my  France  my  land 

In  the  days  so  far. that  be, 
Pity  of  heart  and  pity  of  hand  — 

And  who  had  pity  on  me  ? 
England's  daughter,  led  out  to  die 

For  a  deed  of  mercy  and  truth, 
Guerdon  of  helper  thou  hast  as  I 

From  the  men  that  have  murdered  ruth. 
Sister  of  Joan  by  the  pity,  the  spite, 

Joy  yet  in  the  pain  be  thine  : 
We  have  armed  our  folk  with  a  quenchless  might, 

Fire  of  thy  bosom  and  mine. 

—  J.  II.  S. 


136  MRS.    VIOLET  JACOB 


THE  TWA  WEELUMS 

I'm  Sairgeant  Weelum  Henderson  frae  Pairth, 

That's  wha  I  am  ! 
There's  just  ae  regimint  in  a'  the  airth 

That's  worth  a  damn ; 
An'  gin  the  bonniest  fechter  o'  the  lot 

Ye  seek  to  see, 
Him  that's  the  best — whaur  ilka  marl's  a  Scot- 

Speir  you  at  me  ! 

Gin  there's  a  hash  o'  Gairmans  pitten  oot 

By  aichts  an'  tens, 
That  Wully  Henderson's  been  thereaboot 

A'body  kens ; 
Fegs-aye  !    Yon  Weelum  that's  in  Gairmanie, 

He  hadna'  reckoned 
Wi'  Sairgint  Weelum  Henderson  an'  wi' 

The  Forty-Second  ! 

Yon  day  we  lichtit  on  the  shores  o'  France, 

The  lassies  standin' 
Trod  ilk  on  ither's  taes  to  get  the  chance 

To  see  us  landin'. 


MRS.    VIOLET  JACOB  137 

The  besoms !    O  they  smiled  to  me  —  an'  yet 

They  couldiia'  help  it. 
(Mysel'j  I  just  was  thinkin'  foo  we'd  get 

They  Gairmans  skelpit.) 

I'm  wearied  wi'  them,  for  it's  aye  the  same 

\Miaiire'er  we  gang, 
Oor  Captain  thinks  we've  got  his  een  to  blame, 

But  man  !  he's  wrang  ! 
I  winna  say  he's  no  as  smairt  a  lad 

As  ye  micht  see 
Atween  twa  Sawbiths  —  aye,  he's  no  sae  bad. 

But  he's  no  me  ! 

Weel,  let  the  limmers  bide ;  their  bonnie  lips 

Are  fine  an'  reid, 
But  me  an'  Weel  urn's  got  to  get  to  grips 

Afore  we're  deid, 
An'  gin  he  thinks  he  hasna'  met  his  match 

He'll  sune  be  wiser  — 
Here's  to  mysel' !     Here's  to  the  auld  Black  Watch  I 

An'  damn  the  Kaiser ! 

—  Violet  Jacob. 


138  ELINOR  JENKINS 


A  LEGEND  OF  YPRES 

Before  the  throne  the  spirits  of  the  slain 
With  a  loud  voice  importunately  cried, 
"O  Lord  of  Hosts,  whose  name  be  glorified, 

Scarce  may  the  line  one  onslaught  more  sustain 

Wanting  our  help.     Let  it  not  be  in  vain. 
Not  all  in  vain,  O  God,  that  we  have  died." 
And  smiling  on  them  our  good  Lord  replied, 

"Begone  then,  foolish  ones,  and  fight  again." 

Our  eyes  were  holden,  that  we  saw  them  not ; 

Disheartened  foes  beheld  —  our  prisoners  said  — 
Behind  us  massed,  a  mighty  host  indeed. 
Where  no  host  was.     On  comrades  unforgot 

We  thought,  and  knew  that  all  those  valiant  dead 
Forwent  their  rest  to  save  us  at  our  need. 

—  Elinor  Jenkins. 

(See  note  on  "  The  First  Battle  of  Ypres,"  by  Mrs.  Mar- 
garet L.  Woods,  p.  290  of  this  volume.) 


E DM  VXD  JOHN  139 


IX  MEMORIAM 

(To  Field-Marshal  Lord  Roberts  of  Kandahar,  died 
November,  1914) 

Rest,  though  the  damorous  surge  of  war 

Follow  thy  peace  to  the  great  doors  of  Death  ; 

As  in  thy  fearless  life,  so  now,  the  cannons'  roar, 
The  roll  of  drums,  at  thy  last  breath 

Proclaim  thee  Conqueror  I 

The  prophets  and  the  warriors  who  have  passed 
That  way  before  thy  coming,  welcome  thee ; 

The  Angel's  trumpet  sounds  a  nobler  blast. 
And  kings  and  knights  of  the  old  chivalry 

Now  hail  thee  at  the  last. 

Th\-  days,  thy  deeds,  th>-  words  of  proven  gold, 
Thy  son,  and  last  of  all,  thyself  did  give 

For  Country's  sake,  and  now  the  tale  is  told 
Tliy  splendid  memory  shall  breathe  and  live 

Till  all  men's  hearts  lie  cold. 

—  Edmund  John. 


140  NIZAM  AT  JUNG 


INDIA  TO  ENGLAND 

O  England  !  in  thine  hour  of  need, 
When  Faith's  reward  and  valor's  meed 

Is  death  or  glory, 
When  Faith  indites,  with  biting  brand, 
Clasped  in  each  warrior's  stiffening  hand, 

A  nation's  story ; 

Though  weak  our  hands,  which  fain  would  clasp 
The  warrior's  sword  with  warrior's  grasp 

On  victory's  field ; 
Yet  turn,  O  mighty  Mother !  turn 
Unto  the  million  hearts  that  burn 

To  be  thy  shield. 

Thine  equal  justice,  mercy,  grace 
Have  made  a  distant  alien  race 

A  part  of  thee. 
'Twas  thine  to  bid  their  souls  rejoice 
When  first  they  heard  the  living  voice 

Of  Liberty. 

Unmindful  of  their  ancient  name. 
And  lost  to  honor  —  glory  —  fame. 
And  sunk  in  strife, 


NIZAM  AT  JUNG  141 


Thou  found  them,  whom  thy  touch  hath  made 
Men,  and  to  whom  thy  breath  conveyed 
A  nobler  Hfe. 

They,  whom  thy  love  hath  f:;uarded  long ; 
They,  whom  thy  care  hath  rendered  strong 

In  love  and  faith. 
Their  heartstrings  round  thy  heart  entwine, 
They  are,  they  ever  will  be,  thine  ; 

In  life  —  in  death. 

—  Nizamat  Jung. 

(Native  Judge  of  the  High  Court  of  Hyderabad.) 


142         REGINALD   WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 


THE  NATIONS'  DAVID 

Erect  before  Hell's  hurricane,  between  the  Germans 

and  the  sea, 
Belgium,  still  smiling  through  your  pain;    still,  in 

the  hour  of  ruin,  free ; 
While  yet  the  cannon's  note  resounds  along  each 

poplar-bordered  way, 
O,  bleeding  Belgium,  to  your  wounds  what  mankind 

owes  what  man  may  say  ? 

Long  years,  while  battle  came  and  went  afar  at 

Fate's  malign  caprice, 
Your    kindly    folk,    serene,    content,    pursued    the 

pleasant  ways  of  peace. 
They  promised,   all  the  mighty   ones:     "In  that 

calm  land  shall  not  be  heard 
The  thunder  of  our  angry  guns"  —  Kaiser  and  King, 

they  pledged  their  word. 

And  then,  unwarning,  arrogant,  the  cut-throat  liar 

of  Berlin 
Tore  into  shreds  his  covenant:    his  armed  hosts 

were  swarming  in 


REGINALD   WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN  143 

From  Prussian  beer-halls,  Rhiiiisli  hills,  from  Auricli 

east  to  Gumbinnen, 
From  Rostock  down  to  stolen  Silz,  sounded  the  tramp 

of  Krupp-made  men. 

This  was  }our  guardian  brother's  gift,  the  choice 

he  gave  his  little  ward  : 
Betrayal  of  France  (the  course  of  thrift)  or  (Honor's 

course)  the  crimsoned  sword. 
And  you,  the  Nations'  David,  chose,  while  all  the 

world  stood  trembling  by  ; 
You  called  your  sons,  and  they  arose  :   "  Come  forth 

to  die  !     Come  forth  to  die  !" 

Your  weaver  stopped  his  whirring  loom ;   as  Ceesar 

met  him,  even  so  now 
Your  farmer  hurried  to  his  doom,  and  in  its  furrow 

left  the  plough  ; 
And  Flanders,  Hainault,  Brabant  came,  Antwerp 

and  Limburg  —  all  the  land  : 
The  nameless  and  the  proud  of  name,  shoulder  to 

shoulder,  hand  in  hand. 

Not  for  adventure,  nor  in  pride :    with  naught  to 

gain  and  all  to  lose  — 
Their  homes,  their  wives,  their  lives  beside  —  true 

sons  of  you,  they,  too,  could  choose. 


144         REGINALD   WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 

They  came,  with  eyes  that  looked  on  death ;  not 
driven  slaves,  but  conscious  men  : 

The  Brugan  burgher  scant  of  breath,  the  lean- 
limbed  hunter  of  Ardennes. 

Their  part  it  was  to  hold  the  gate,  the  narrow  gate, 

against  a  foe 
Outnumbering  scores  to  one  —  to  wait  till  Death 

alone  should  bid  them  go. 
And  how  they  held  it !    Man  and  child  ;  about  Liege 

where  Leman  fed 
Blood-hungry     Prussians     blood     and     piled     the 

meadows  with  heroic  dead  ; 

While  village  after  village  fell,  cottage  and  church 

engulfed  in  smoke ; 
While  all  the  land  became  a  Hell  and  served  to  turn 

a  Teuton  joke ; 
While  Belgian  women  prayed  in  vain  for  German 

mercy,  trusting,  fond ; 
While    German    "Culture"    burned    Louvain,   and 

German  tenderness  Termonde : 

You  did  it,  Little  Belgium  —  you  !    You  stopped 

the  dyke  with  half  your  sons ; 
You  did  what  no  one  else  could  do  against  the 

Vandals  and  the  Huns ! 


REGINALD   WRIGHT   KAUFFMAN         145 

The  eternal   future  in  your  debt   from   now  until 

Man's  latest  dav. 
How  can  the  wondering  world  forget  —  and  how, 

remembering,  repay  ? 

France,  Britain,  Russia  :   they  have  fought  as    fits 
the  vast  initiate; 

You,    all    unready,    but    unbought,    till    tliey   were 
marshalled,  held  the  gate. 

Above  all  clamour  and  applause,  you  stand,  what- 
ever else  befall, 

God's  David  in  Mankind's  high  cause:    Belgium, 
the  bravest  of  them  all ! 

—  Reginald  Wright  Kan ff man. 


146  HERBERT   KAUFMAN 


THE  HELL-GATE  OF  SOISSONS 

My  name  is  Darino,  the  poet.     You  have  heard? 

Oui,  Comedie  Fran9aise. 
Perchance  it  has  happened,  mon  ami,  you  know  of 

my  unworthy  lays. 
Ah,  then,  you  must  guess  how  my  fingers  are  itching 

to  talk  to  a  pen ; 
For  I  was  at  Soissons,  and  saw  it,  the  death  of  the 

twelve  Englishmen. 

My  leg,  malheureusement,  I  left  it  behind  on  the 

banks  of  the  Aisne. 
Regret?    I  would  pay  with  the  other  to  witness 

their  valor  again. 
A  trifle,  indeed,  I  assure  you,  to  give  for  the  honor 

to  tell 
How  that  handful  of  British,  undaunted,  went  into 

the  Gateway  of  Hell. 

Let  me  draw  you  a  plan  of  the  battle.     Here  we 

French  and  your  Engineers  stood  ; 
Over  there  a  detachment  of  German  sharpshooters 

lay  hid  in  a  wood. 


HERBERT   KAUFMAX  147 

A  mitrailleuse  battery  planted  on  top  of  this  well- 
chosen  ridge 

Held  the  road  for  the  Prussians  and  covered  the 
direct  approach  to  the  bridge. 

It  was  madness  to  dare  the  dense  murder  that  spewed 

from  those  ghastly  machines. 
(Only  those  who  have  danced  to  its  music  can  know 

what  the  mitrailleuse  means.) 
But  the  bridge  on  the  Aisne  was  a  menace;    our 

safety  demanded  its  fall : 
"  Engineers,  —  volunteers ! "     In  a  body,  the  Royals 

stood  out  at  the  call. 

Death  at  best  was  the  fate  of  that  mission  —  to 

their  glory  not  one  was  dismayed. 
A  party  was  chosen  —  and  seven  survived  till  the 

powder  was  laid. 
And  they  died  with  their  fuses  unlighted.     Another 

detachment !     Again 
A  sortie  is  made  —  all  too  vainly.     The  bridge  still 

commanded  the  Aisne. 

We  were  fighting  two  foes  —  Time  and  Prussia  — 
the  moments  were  worth  more  than  troops. 

We  must  blow  up  the  bridge.  A  lone  soldier  darts 
out  from  the  Royals  and  swoops 


148  HERBERT  KAUFMAN 

For  the  fuse !  Fate  seems  with  us.  We  cheer 
him  ;  he  answers  —  our  hopes  are  reborn  ! 

A  ball  rips  his  visor  —  his  khaki  shows  red  where 
another  has  torn. 

Will   he   live  —  will   he    last  —  will   he   make    it  ? 

Helas  !    And  so  near  to  the  goal ! 
A  second,  he  dies  !    Then  a  third  one  !    A  fourth  ! 

Still  the  Germans  take  toll ! 
A  fifth,  magnifique !     It  is  magic !     How  does  he 

escape  them  ?     He  may  .  .  . 
Yes,  he  does!    See,  the  match  flares !     A  rifle  rings 

out  from  the  wood  and  says  "Nay !" 

Six,  seven,  eight,  nine  take  their  places,  six,  seven, 

eight,  nine,  brave  their  hail ; 
Six,    seven,    eight,    nine  —  how    we    count    them ! 

But  the  sixth,  seventh,  eighth,  and  ninth  fail ! 
A    tenth !     Sacre    nom !     But    these    English    are 

soldiers  —  they  know  how  to  try ; 
(He  fumbles  the  place  where  his  jaw  was)  —  they 

show,  too,  how  heroes  can  die. 

Ten  we  count  —  ten  who  ventured  unquailing  — 
ten  there  were  —  and  the  ten  are  no  more  I 

Yet  another  salutes  and  superbly  essays  where  the 
ten  failed  before. 


HERBERT   KAUFMAN  149 

God  of  Battles,  look  down  and  protect  him  !  Lord, 
his  heart  is  as  Thine  —  let  him  Hve  ! 

But  the  mitrailleuse  sputters  and  stutters,  and 
riddles  him  into  a  sieve. 

Then  I  thought  of  my  sins,  and  sat  waiting  the 

charge  that  we  could  not  withstand. 
And  I  thought  of  my  beautiful  Paris,  and  gave  a  last 

look  at  the  land. 
At  France,  my  belle  PVance,  in  her  glory  of  blue  sky 

and  green  field  and  wood. 
Death  with  honor,    but    never   surrender.     And    to 

die  with  such  men  —  it  was  good. 

They  are  forming  —  the  bugles  are  blaring  —  they 
will  cross  in  a  moment  and  then  .  .  . 

When  out  of  the  line  of  the  Royals  (your  island,  mon 
ami,  breeds  men) 

Burst  a  private,  a  tawny-haired  giant  —  it  was  hope- 
less, but,  ciel !  how  he  ran  ! 

Bon  Dieu  please  remember  the  pattern,  and  make 
many  more  on  his  plan  ! 

No  cheer  from  our  ranks,  and  the  Germans,  they 

halted  in  wonderment  too ; 
See,  he  reaches  the  bridge ;    ah  !  he  lights  it  I 
I  am  dreaming,  it  cannot  be  true. 


150  HERBERT  KAUFMAN 


Screams    of    rage!     Fusillade!    They    have    killed 
him ! 
Too  late  though,  the  good  work  is  done. 
By  the  valor  of  twelve  English  martyrs,  the  Hell- 
Gate  of  Soissons  is  won  ! 

—  Herbert  Kaufman. 


JOYCE   KILMER  151 


THE  \MUTE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED 

"With  drooping  sail  and  pennant 

That  never  a  wind  may  reach. 
They  float  in  sunless  waters 

Beside  a  sunless  beach. 
Their  mighty  masts  and  funnels 

Are  white  as  driven  snow, 
And  with  a  pallid  radiance 

Their  ghostly  bulwarks  glow. 

Here  is  a  Spanish  galleon 

That  once  with  gold  was  gay, 
Here  is  a  Roman  trireme 

\Miose  hues  outshone  the  day. 
But  Tyrian  dyes  have  faded 

And  prows  that  once  were  bright 
With  rainbow  stains  wear  only 

Death's  livid,  dreadful  white. 

WTiite  as  the  ice  that  clove  her 

That  unforgotten  day. 
Among  her  pallid  sisters 

The  grim  Titanic  lay. 


152  JOYCE  KILMER 

And  through  the  leagues  above  her 
She  looked,  aghast,  and  said  : 

"  What  is  this  living  ship  that  comes 
Where  every  ship  is  dead?" 

The  ghostly  vessels  trembled 

From  ruined  stern  to  prow ; 
What  was  this  thing  of  terror 

That  broke  their  vigil  now  ? 
Down  through  the  startled  ocean 

A  mighty  vessel  came, 
Not  white,  as  all  dead  ships  must  be, 

But  red,  like  living  flame  ! 

The  pale  green  waves  about  her 

Were  swiftly,  strangely  dyed. 
By  the  great  scarlet  stream  that  flowed 

From  out  her  wounded  side. 
And  all  her  decks  were  scarlet 

And  all  her  shattered  crew. 
She  sank  among  the  white  ghost  ships 

And  stained  them  through  and  through. 

The  grim  Titanic  greeted  her 
"And  who  art  thou?"  she  said ; 

"  Why  dost  thou  join  our  ghostly  fleet 
Arrayed  in  living  red  ? 

We  are  the  ships  of  sorrow 
Who  spend  the  weary  night, 


JOYCE  KILMER  153 


Until  the  dawn  of  Judgment  Day, 
Obscure  and  still  and  white." 

"Nay,"  said  the  scarlet  visitor, 

"  Though  I  sink  through  the  sea 
A  ruined  thing  that  was  a  ship 

I  sink  not  as  did  ye. 
For  ye  met  with  your  destiny 

By  storm  or  rock  or  fight, 
So  through  the  lagging  centuries 

Ye  wear  your  robes  of  white. 

"  But  never  crashing  iceberg 

Nor  honest  shot  of  foe, 
Nor  hidden  reef  has  sent  me 

The  way  that  I  must  go. 
My  wound  that  stains  the  waters, 

My  blood  that  is  like  flame, 
Bear  witness  to  a  loathly  deed, 

A  deed  without  a  name. 

"  I  went  not  forth  to  battle, 

I  carried  friendly  men, 
The  children  played  about  my  decks, 

The  women  sang  —  and  then  — 
And  then  —  the  sun  blushed  scarlet 

Anrl  Heaven  hid  its  face. 
The  world  that  God  created 

Became  a  shameful  place  I 


154  JOYCE  KILMER 

"  My  wrong  cries  out  for  vengeance, 

The  blow  that  sent  me  here 
Was  aimed  in  Hell.     My  dying  scream 

Has  reached  Jehovah's  ear. 
Not  all  the  seven  oceans 

Shall  wash  away  the  stain ; 
Upon  a  brow  that  wears  a  crown 

I  am  the  brand  of  Cain." 

When  God's  great  voice  assembles 

The  fleet  on  Judgment  Day, 
The  ghosts  of  ruined  ships  will  rise 

In  sea  and  strait  and  bay. 
Though  they  have  lain  for  ages 

Beneath  the  changeless  flood, 
They  shall  be  white  as  silver. 

But  one  —  shall  be  like  blood. 

—  Joyce  Kilmer. 


ALFRED   KREYMBORG  155 


0\TRHEARD  IX  AN  ASIXUM 

And  here  we  have  another  case, 
quite  different  from  the  last, 
another  case  quite  different  — 
Listen. 

Baby,  drink. 
The  war  is  over. 
Mother's  breasts 
are  round  with  milk. 

Baby,  rest. 
The  war  is  over. 
Only  pigs 
slop  over  so. 

Baby,  sleep. 
The  war  is  over. 
Daddy's  come 
with  a  German  coin. 

Baby,  dream. 
The  war  is  over. 
You'll  be  a  soldier 
too. 


156  ALFRED  KREYMBORG 

We  gave  her  the  doll  — 

Now  there  we  have  another  case, 

quite  different  from  — 

—  Alfred  Kreymhorg. 


WINIFRED  M.   LETTS  157 


THE   SPIRES   OF  OXFORD 

I  SAW  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  gray  spires  of  Oxford 

Against  a  pearl-gray  sky. 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 

Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 
The  golden  years  and  gay, 

The  hoary  Colleges  look  down 
On  careless  boys  at  play. 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded  war 
They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 
The  cricket-field,  the  quad. 

The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 
To  seek  a  bloody  sod  — 

They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 
For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen. 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 


158  WINIFRED  M.  LETTS 


Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 

Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 
God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 

Than  even  Oxford  town. 

—  Winifred  M.  Letts. 


VACHEL   LINSDAY  159 


ABRAHAM  LIXCOLX  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

(In  Springfield,  Illinois) 

It  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 
That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little  town 
A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest, 
Near  the  old  court-house  pacing  up  and  down. 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  lingers  where  his  children  used  to  play. 
Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn  stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away. 

A  bronzed,  lank  man  !     His  suit  of  ancient  black, 
A  famous  high  top-hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 
Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men  love, 
The  prairie-lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  cannot  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now. 

He  is  among  us  :  —  as  in  times  before  ! 

And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long 

Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the  door. 

His  head  is  bowed.     He  thinks  on  men  and  kings. 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he  sleep  ? 
Too  many  peasants  fight,  they  know  not  why, 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 


160  VACHEL  LINDSAY 


The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart. 
He  sees  the  dreadnaughts  scouring  every  main. 
He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders  now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly  and  the  pain. 

He  cannot  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 
Shall  come ;  —  the  shining  hope  of  Europe  free : 
The  league  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth 
Bringing  long  peace  to  Cornland,  Alp  and  Sea. 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  kings  must  murder  still. 
That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.     And  who  will  bring  white  peace 
That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again  ? 

—  Vachel  Lindsay. 


AMY   LOWELL  161 


PATTERNS 

I  WALK  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.     As  I  wander  down 

The  garden  paths. 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 
And  the  train 

]\Iakes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 
On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 
Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 
Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 
Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me. 
Only  whale-bone  and  brocade. 
And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 
Of  a  lime  tree.     For  my  passion 
Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 
The  daffodils  and  squills 
u 


162  AMY  LOWELL 


Flutter  in  the  breeze 

As  they  please. 

And  I  weep ; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 

And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

And  the  plashing  of  waterdrops 

In  the  marble  fountain 

Comes  down  the  garden  paths. 

The  dripping  never  stops. 

Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 

Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble 

basin, 
A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 
So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding. 
But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 
And  the  sliding  of  the  water 
Seems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 
Hand  upon  her. 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown  ! 
I  should  like  to  see  it  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the 

ground. 
All    the    pink    and    silver    crumpled    up    on    the 

ground. 
I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the 

paths, 
And  he  would  stumble  after 
Bewildered  by  my  laughter. 


AMY   LOWELL  163 


I  should  see  the  sun  flashing  from  his  sword  hilt  and 

the  buckles  on  his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright  and  laughing  maze  for  my  heavy-booted 

lover, 
Till  he  caught  me  in  the  shade, 
And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body 

as  he  clasped  me, 
Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
And  the  plopping  of  the  waterdrops, 
All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon  — 
I  am  very  like  to  swoon 
With  the  weight  of  this  brocade. 
For  the  sun  sifts  through  the  shade. 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  mv  bosom. 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 

It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from 
the  Duke. 

"Madam,  we  regret  to  inform  you  that  Lord  Hart- 
well 

Died  in  action  Thursday  sen'night." 

As  I  read  it  in  the  white,  morning  sunlight, 

The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 

"Any  answer,  Madam  ?  "  said  my  footman. 


164  AMY  LOWELL 


"No,"  I  told  him. 

"See  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 

No,  no  answer." 

And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 

Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 

In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 

The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in 

the  sun. 
Each  one. 

I  stood  upright  too, 
Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 
By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 
Up  and  down  I  walked, 
Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 

In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 

We  would  have  broke  the  pattern ; 

He  for  me,  and  I  for  him. 

He  as  Colonel,  I  as  Lady, 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "  It  shall  be  as  you  have  said." 

Now  he  is  dead. 

In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 
Up  and  down 


AMY  LOWELL  165 


The  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and 

to  snow. 
I  shall  go 
Up  and  down. 
In  my  gown. 
Gorgeously  arrayed, 
Boned  and  stayed. 
And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from 

embrace 
By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 
For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead. 
Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 
In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 
Christ !    What  are  patterns  for? 

—  Amy  Loivell. 


166  E.    V.   LUCAS 


THE  DEBT 

No  more  old  England  will  they  see  — 
The  men  who've  died  for  you  and  me. 

So  lone  and  cold  they  lie ;  but  we, 
We  still  have  life ;  we  still  may  greet 
Our  pleasant  friends  in  home  and  street ; 
We  still  have  life,  are  able  still 
To  climb  the  turf  of  Bignor  Hill, 
To  see  the  placid  sheep  go  by, 
To  hear  the  sheep-dog's  eager  cry. 
To  feel  the  sun,  to  taste  the  rain, 
To  smell  the  Autumn  scents  again 
Beneath  the  brown  and  gold  and  red 
Which  old  October's  brush  has  spread, 
To  hear  the  robin  in  the  lane, 
To  look  upon  the  English  sky. 

So  young  they  were,  so  strong  and  well. 

Until  the  bitter  summons  fell  — 

Too  young  to  die. 

Yet  there  on  foreign  soil  they  lie, 

So  pitiful,  with  glassy  eye 

And  limbs  all  tumbled  anyhow : 

Quite  finished,  now. 


E.    V.   LUCAS  167 


On  exery  heart,  lest  we  forget  — 
Secure  at  home  —  engrave  this  debt ! 

Too  dehcate  is  flesh  to  be 

The  shield  that  nations  interpose 

'TwLxt  red  Ambition  and  his  foes  — 

The  bastion  of  Liberty. 

So  beautiful  their  bodies  were, 

Built  with  so  exquisite  a  care : 

So  young  and  fit  and  lithe  and  fair. 

The  very  flower  of  us  were  they, 

The  very  flower,  but  yesterday  ! 

Yet  now  so  pitiful  they  lie, 

Where  love  of  country  bade  them  hie 

To  fight  this  fierce  Caprice  —  and  die. 

All  mangled  now,  where  shells  have  burst 

And  lead  and  steel  have  done  their  worst ; 

The  tender  tissues  ploughed  away, 

The  year's  slow  processes  effaced  : 

The  Mother  of  us  all,  disgraced. 

And  some  leave  wives  behind,  young  wives; 

Already  some  have  launched  new  lives : 

A  little  daughter,  little  son ; 

For  thus  this  blundering  world  goes  on. 

But  never  more  will  any  see 

The  old  secure  felicity. 

The  kindnesses  that  made  us  glad 

Before  the  world  went  mad. 


168  E.    V.  LUCAS 


They'll  never  hear  another  bird, 
Another  gay  or  loving  word  — 
Those  men  who  lie  so  cold  and  lone, 
Far  in  a  country  not  their  own ; 
Those  men  who  died  for  you  and  me. 
That  England  still  might  sheltered  be 
And  our  smug  lives  be  much  the  same 
(Although  to  live  is  almost  shame). 

—  E.  V.  Lucas. 


HABBERTOX   Ll'LHAM  169 


HIS  ONLY  WAY 

I  STOOD  to-day  high  on  the  Downs 
And  talked  long  with  a  shepherd  lad ; 

I  found  him  pondering  by  his  sheep, 
Motionless,  staring-eyed,  and  sad. 

But,  leaning  on  his  Pyecombe  crook  — 
Long  polished  by  his  father's  hand  — 

He  told,  with  slow-tongued  eagerness, 
This  love-tale  of  his  Sussex  land  : 

"Me  and  my  mate,  Dick,  loved  a  girl. 
But  he  was  always  down  at  plough, 

And  in  and  out  the  village,  like, 
And  —  well,  he  'listed,  anyhow ; 

"While  I  bides  up  here  'long  me  sheep; 

And  our  girl,  though  she  liked  us  two 
Equal  it  seemed,  she  took  his  ring  — 

As,  sure,  she'd  right  enough  to  do. 

"Well,  Dick  he  fought  and  met  his  death, 
Somewheres  in  Flanders,  so  'tis  said ; 

And  I  can't  go  to  her,  I  feels. 

Because  of  Dick  there  lying  dead. 


170  HABBERTON  LULHAM 

"They  do  tell  she  gets  pine  and  thin, 
And  mopes  and  mourns  that  bitterly, 

But  I  can't  go  and  say  a  word. 
Because  he  died  for  her,  you  see. 

"And  day  by  day  I  sees  it  more  — 
I've  pieced  it  all  out  clear  and  plain  — 

As  I  must  go  like  Dick  has  gone, 
Afore  I  looks  at  her  again. 

"Old  wall-eyed  Bob,  there,  '11  pine  awhile, 
And  listen,  maybe,  for  my  call ; 

And  master,  he'll  be  proper  mad, 
With  lambing  coming  on,  and  all. 

"But  there  'tis,  and  there  ain't  two  ways: 
He  went,  and  'tis  the  only  thing  ; 

Else  I  shall  grow  to  hate  the  hill 
And  get  ashamed  o'  shepherding. 

"That  there's  her  window  down  below. 
Aside  the  copse,  where  I  could  see 

(It  seems  a  score  o'  years  agone) 
Our  girl  stand  waving  up  to  me. 

"Come  Sunday,  then,  I'll  'list  for  sure 
(The  same  as  you  done,  Dick,  old  lad  !) 

Then,  if  I  gets  back,  I  can  go 

Fair,  like,  and  face  her  proud  and  glad." 

—  Habberton  Lulham. 


PERCY   MAC  KAY  E  171 


CHRISTMAS,   1915 

Now  is  the  midnight  of  the  nations :  dark 
Even  as  death,  beside  her  blood-dark  seas, 
Earth,  Hke  a  mother  in  birth  agonies. 
Screams  in  her  travail,  and  the  planets  hark 
Her  million-throated  terror.     Naked,  stark, 
Her  torso  writhes  enormous,  and  her  knees 
Shudder  against  the  shadowed  Pleiades, 
Wrenching  the  night's  imponderable  arc. 

Christ !    What  shall  be  delivered  to  the  morn 
Out  of  these  pangs,  if  ever  indeed  another 
Morn  shall  succeed  this  night,  or  this  vast  mother 
Survive  to  know  the  blood-spent  offspring,  torn 
From  her  racked  flesh  ?  —  What  splendor  from  the 

smother  ? 
What  new-wing'd  world,  or  mangled  god  still-born? 

—  Percy  MacKaye. 


172  JAMES  MACKERETH 


TO  ENGLAND,  OUR  MOTHER 

A   HYMN    OF    LOYALTY 

We  are  your  children,  O  Mother, 

And  tried  by  your  testing,  but  true ; 
Sealed  of  your  sign  and  none  other ; 

Soul  of  the  soul  that  is  you ; 
Yours  from  the  past,  for  the  morrow ; 

Leal  at  your  travail  we  bow, 
Mother  made  perfect  by  sorrow, 

With  the  pain-splendid  brow. 

Yours  was  our  freedom  that  blamed  you, 

Our  right  that  was  wind  to  our  hate 
Yours,  and  the  swift  wrath  that  named  you. 

Mother,  we  love,  -7-  and  we  wait. 
We  that  you  favored  or  slighted, 

Mother,  are  all  of  us  peers 
In  our  will  that  your  wrong  shall  be  righted, 

In  our  love  at  the  sight  of  your  tears. 

Ah,  deep  in  our  hearts  is  the  sweetness 
Of  your  fields  where  as  infants  we  trod, 

When  our  ills  were  as  swallows  for  fleetness. 
In  the  green-curtained  play-grounds  of  God. 


JAMES   MACKERETH  173 

Fond  days  that  are  joys  mid  our  weeping 
Are  set  mid  your  meadows  and  bowers ; 

Our  loves  that  lie  dead  in  your  keeping 
You  fondle  with  grass  and  with  flowers. 

Ah,  yours  was  the  beauty  that  blessed  us; 

The  kiss  when  our  troubles  were  dumb ; 
The  hand  that  in  childhood  caressed  us  — 

Oh,  ]\Iothcr  !  you  need  us.     We  come ! 
Love-gifts  from  our  hell  or  our  heaven 

Take,  take  them  and  purge  with  your  pain ; 
All,  all  our  love's  best  take,  and  leaven 

Our  life  till  'tis  lovely  again,  — 

And  true  to  your  height,  Mother,  tender 

And  true  to  the  best  in  us  all ! 
We  have  pined  here  alone  in  your  splendor ; 

But  we  speed  to  your  pain  lest  you  fall. 
Ask :  we  give  !     Is  it  life  or  the  other? 

Is  it  death  ?     Take  us  whole.     We  are  come 
For  the  sake  of  our  dream  of  you,  Mother, 

Whose  love  we  have  longed  for  at  home ! 
******* 

Oh,  Lord  of  our  fathers  before  us, 

We  have  turned  from  the  light  of  Thy  word, 
We  and  this  Mother  who  bore  us : 

Dread  Go<l,  we  were  proud  :  we  have  erred. 


174  JAMES   MACKERETH 

We  plead  :  on  ourselves,  not  our  brother, 
Lay  now  the  stern  weight  of  Thy  rod ; 

Grmd  us  small  with  Thy  grief ;  —  but  our  Mother 
Spare,  spare  her,  O  God  ! 

—  James  A.  Mackereth. 


JOHN   MASEFIELD  175 


THE   ISLAND   OF   SIvTROS 

Here,  where  we  stood  together,  we  three  men, 
Before  the  war  had  swept  us  to  the  East 
Three  thousand  miles  away,  I  stand  agam 
And  hear  the  bells,  and  breathe,  and  go  to  feast. 
We  trod  the  same  path,  to  the  self-same  place. 
Yet  here  I  stand,  having  beheld  their  graves, 
Skyros  whose  shadows  the  great  seas  erase, 
And  Seddul  Bahr  that  ever  more  blood  craves. 
So,  since  we  communed  here,  our  bones  have  been 
Nearer,  perhaps,  than  they  again  will  be. 
Earth  and  the  world-wide  battle  lie  between, 
Death  lies  between,  and  friend-destroying  sea. 
Yet  here,  a  year  ago,  we  talked  and  stood 
As  I  stand  now,  with  pulses  beating  blood. 

I  saw  her  like  a  shadow  on  the  sky 

In  the  last  light,  a  blur  upon  the  sea, 

Then  the  gale's  darkness  put  the  shadow  by, 

But  from  one  grave  that  island  talked  to  me ; 

And,  in  the  midnight,  in  the  breaking  storm, 

I  saw  its  blackness  and  a  blinking  light. 

And  thought,  "So  death  obscures  your  gentle  form, 

So  memory  strives  to  make  the  darkness  bright ; 


176  JOHN   MASEFIELD 

And,  in  that  heap  of  rocks,  your  body  lies. 
Part  of  the  island  till  the  planet  ends, 
My  gentle  comrade,  beautiful  and  wise, 
Part  of  this  crag  this  bitter  surge  offends. 
While  I,  who  pass,  a  little  obscure  thing. 
War  with  this  force,  and  breathe,  and  am  its  king." 

—  John  Masefield. 
(See  note  on  Rupert  Brooke,  p.  38.) 


EDGAR  LEE   MASTERS  177 


O  GLORIOUS  FRANCE 

You  have  become  a  forge  of  snow  white  fire, 

A  crucible  of  molten  steel,  O  France  ! 

Your  sons  are  stars  who  cluster  to  a  dawn 

And  fade  in  light  for  you,  O  glorious  France ! 

They  pass  through  meteor  changes  with  a  song 

Which  to  all  islands  and  all  continents 

Says  life  is  neither  comfort,  wealth,  nor  fame, 

Nor  quiet  hearthstones,  friendship,  wife  nor  child, 

Nor    love,    nor    youth's    delight,    nor    manhood's 

power. 
Nor  many  days  spent  in  a  chosen  work, 
Nor  honored  merit,  nor  the  patterned  theme 
Of  daih'  labor,  nor  the  crowns  nor  wreaths 
Of  seventy  years. 

These  are  not  all  of  life, 
O  France,  whose  sons  amid  the  rolling  thunder 
Of  cannon  stand  in  trenches  where  the  dead 
Clog  the  ensanguined  ice.     But  life  to  these 
Prophetic  and  enraptured  souls  is  vision, 
And  the  keen  ecstasy  of  fated  strife, 
And  divination  of  the  loss  as  gain, 
And  reading  mysteries  with  brightened  eyes 


178  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

In  fiery  shock  and  dazzling  pain  before 

The  orient  splendor  of  the  face  of  Death, 

As  a  great  light  beside  a  shadowy  sea ; 

And  in  a  high  will's  strenuous  exercise. 

Where  the  warmed  spirit  finds  its  fullest  strength 

And  is  no  more  afraid.     And  in  the  stroke 

Of  azure  lightning  when  the  hidden  essence 

And  shifting  meaning  of  man's  spiritual  worth 

And  mystical  significance  in  time 

Are  instantly  distilled  to  one  clear  drop 

Which  mirrors  earth  and  heaven. 

This  is  life 
Flaming  to  heaven  in  a  minute's  span 
When  the  breath  of  battle  blows  the  smoldering 

spark. 
And  across  these  seas 

We  who  cry  Peace  and  treasure  life  and  cling 
To  cities,  happiness,  or  daily  toil 
For  daily  bread,  or  trail  the  long  routine 
Of  seventy  years,  taste  not  the  terrible  wine 
Whereof  you  drink,  who  drain  and  toss  the  cup 
Empty  and  ringing  by  the  finished  feast ; 
Or  have  it  shaken  from  your  hand  by  sight 
Of  God  against  the  olive  woods. 

As  Joan  of  Arc  amid  the  apple  trees 

With  sacred  joy  first  heard  the  voices,  then 


EDGAR  LEE   MASTERS  179 

Obeying  plunged  at  Orleans  in  a  field 

Of  spears  and  lived  her  dream  and  died  in  fire, 

Thou,  France,  hast  heard  the  voices  and  hast  lived 

The  dream  and  known  the  meaning  of  the  dream, 

And  read  its  riddle  :  IIow  the  soul  of  man 

May  to  one  greatest  purpose  make  itself 

A  lens  of  clearness,  how  it  loves  the  cup 

Of  deepest  truth,  and  how  its  bitterest  gall 

Turns  sweet  to  soul's  surrender. 

And  you  say : 
Take  days  for  repetition,  stretch  your  hands 
For  mocked  renewal  of  familiar  things  : 
The  beaten  path,  the  chair  beside  the  window. 
The  crowded  street,  the  task,  the  accustomed  sleep, 
And  waking  to  the  task,  or  many  springs 
Of  lifted  cloud,  blue  water,  flowering  fields  — 
The  prison  house  grows  close  no  less,  the  feast 
A  place  of  memory  sick  for  senses  dulled 
Down  to  the  dustj^  end  where  pitiful  Time 
Grown  weary  cries  Enough  ! 

—  Edgar  Lee  Masters. 


180  DR.   JOHN  MCRAE 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS 

(Reprinted  by  the  special  permission  of  the  proprietors 
of  Punch.) 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 

Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place,  and  in  the  sky, 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly, 

Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  dead ;  short  days  ago 

We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe ! 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch ;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high ! 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

—  John  McRae. 


MISS  M.   G.   MEUGENS  181 


THE  FLEETS 

Are  you  out  with  the  fleets  through  the  long,  dark 
night, 
Admiral  Drake? 
Are  you  keeping  watch,  when  with  never  a  light 
They  patrol  the  seas  and  wait  for  a  fight  ? 

In  that  far  South  Sea  were  you  standing  by. 

Admiral  Drake? 
Did  your  masthead  catch  that  wireless  cry  ? 
Did  vou  in  sorrow  watch  them  die? 

Once  more  at  the  guns  do  your  gunners  strain. 

Admiral  Drake  ? 
Do  their  voices  ring  o'er  the  decks  again, 
"Have  at  them,  boys !"  in  the  old  refrain? 

^^^len  the  shining  death  leaps  through  the  wave, 

Admiral  Drake, 
Are  your  boats  all  out  in  a  rush  to  save  ? 
Do  you  stand  to  salute  the  death  of  the  brave  ? 

Are  there  others  out  on  the  heaving  blue. 
Admiral  Drake? 


182  MISS  M.   G.   MEUGENS 

Are  Collingwood,  Blake  and  Nelson,  too, 
In  their  high-decked  ships,  along  with  you  ? 

Oh,  seamen  of  old,  the  shadowy  gates 
Swing  wide  to  let  you  through, 
And  out  o'er  the  seas  your  galleons  sweep 
To  fight  for  the  flag  anew. 

—  M.  G.  Meugens. 


ALICE   MEYNELL  183 


SUMMER   IN   ENGLAND,    1914 

On  London  fell  a  clearer  light ; 

Caressing  pencils  of  the  sun 
Defined  the  distances,  the  white 

Houses  transfigured  one  by  one. 
The  *'  long,  unlovely  street"  im pearled. 
O  what  a  sky  has  walked  the  world ! 

IMost  happy  year !    And  out  of  town 
The  hay  was  prosperous,  and  the  wheat ; 

The  silken  harvest  climbed  the  down ; 
]\Ioon  after  moon  was  heavenly  sweet, 

Stroking  the  bread  within  the  sheaves. 

Looking  twixt  apples  and  their  leaves. 

And  while  this  rose  made  round  her  cup, 
The  armies  died  convulsed ;  and  when 

This  chaste  young  silver  sun  went  up 
Softly,  a  thousand  shattered  men. 

One  wet  corruption,  heaped  the  plain, 

After  a  league-long  throb  of  pain. 

Flower  following  tender  flower,  and  birds, 
And  berries  ;   and  benignant  skies 


184  ALICE  MEYNELL 


Made  thrive  the  serried  flocks  and  herds. 
Yonder  are  men  shot  through  the  eyes, 
And  children  crushed.     Love,  hide  thy  face 
From  man's  unpardonable  race. 

A  Reply 

Who  said  "  No  man  hath  greater  love  than  this 

To  die  to  serve  his  friend  ?  " 
So  these  have  loved  us  all  unto  the  end. 
Chide  thou  no  more,  O  thou  unsacrificed  ! 
The  soldier  dying  dies  upon  a  kiss. 

The  very  kiss  of  Christ. 

—  Alice  Meynell. 


J.    E.    MIDDLETON  185 


OFF  HELIGOLAND 

Ghostly  ships  in  a  ghostly  sea, 

(Here's  to  Drake  in  the  Spanish  main !) 
Hark  to  the  turbines,  running  free. 

Oil-cups  full  and  the  orders  plain. 
Plunging  into  the  misty  night, 

Surging  into  the  rolling  brine. 
Never  a  word,  and  never  a  light, 

—  This  for  England  that  love  of  mine  1 

Look  !  a  gleam  on  the  starboard  bow, 

(Here's  to  the  Fighting  Temeraire !) 
Quartermaster  be  ready  now. 

Two  points  over,  and  keep  her  there. 
Ghostly  ships  —  let  the  foemen  grieve. 

Yen's  the  Admiral  tight  and  trim, 
And  one  more  —  with  an  empty  sleeve  — 

Standing  a  little  aft  of  him  ! 

Slender,  young  in  a  coat  of  blue, 
(Here's  to  the  Agamemnon's  pride  !) 

Out  of  the  mists  that  long  he  knew. 
Out  of  the  Victory,  where  he  died. 


186  J.  -E.    MIDDLETON 

Here  to  the  battle-front  he  came. 

See,  he  smiles  in  his  gallant  way ! 
Ghostly  ships  in  a  ghostly  game, 

Roaring  guns  on  a  ghostly  day ! 

There  in  his  white  silk  smalls  he  stands, 

(Here's  to  Nelson,  with  three  times  three !) 
Coming  out  of  the  misty  lands 

Far,  far  over  the  misty  sea. 
Now  the  Foe  is  a  crippled  wreck, 

Limping  out  of  the  deadly  fight. 
Smiling  yond  on  the  quarterdeck 

Stands  the  Spirit,  all  silver-bright. 

—  J.  E.  Middleton. 


RUTH   COMFORT   MITCHELL  187 


HE   WENT  FOR   A   SOLDIER 

He  marched  away  with  a  blithe  young  score  of  him 

With  the  first  vohinteers, 
Clear-eyed  and  clean  and  sound  to  the  core  of  him, 

Blushing  under  the  cheers. 
They  were  fine,  new  flags  that  swoing  a-flying  there, 
Oh,  the  pretty  girls  he  glimpsed  a-crying  there. 

Pelting  him  with  pinks  and  with  roses  — 

Billv,  the  Soldier  Bov  ! 

Not  very  clear  in  the  kind  young  heart  of  him 

What  the  fuss  was  about, 
But  the  flowers  and  the  flags  seemed  part  of  him  — 

The  music  drowned  his  doubt. 
It's  a  fine,  brave  sight  they  were  a-coming  there 
To  the  gay,  bold  tune  they  kept  a-drumming  there, 

While  the  boasting  fifes  shrilled  jauntily  — 

Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy  ! 

Soon  he  is  one  with  the  blinding  smoke  of  it  — 

Volley  and  curse  and  groan  : 
Then  he  has  done  with  the  knightly  joke  of  it  — 

It's  rending  flesh  and  bone. 


188  RUTH  COMFORT   MITCHELL 

There  are  pain-crazed  animals  a-shrieking  there 
And  a  warm  blood  stench  that  is  a-reeking  there ; 

He  fights  like  a  rat  in  a  corner  — 

Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy  ! 

There  he  lies  now,  like  a  ghoulish  score  of  him, 

Left  on  the  field  for  dead  : 
The  ground  all  around  is  smeared  with  the  gore  of 
him  — 

Even  the  leaves  are  red. 
The  Thing  that  was  Billy  lies  a-dying  there, 
Writhing  and  a-twisting  and  a-crying  there; 

A  sickening  sun  grins  down  on  him  — 

Billy,  the  Soldier  Boy  ! 

Still  not  quite  clear  in  the  poor,  wrung  heart  of  him 

What  the  fuss  was  about. 
See  where  he  lies  —  or  a  ghastly  part  of  him  — 

While  life  is  oozing  out : 
There  are  loathsome  things  he  sees  a-crawling  there ; 
There  are  hoarse-voiced  crows  he  hears  a-calling 
there. 

Eager  for  the  foul  feast  spread  for  them  — 

BUly,  the  Soldier  Boy  ! 

How  much  longer,  0  Lord,  shall  we  bear  it  all  f 

How  many  more  red  years  f 
Story  it  and  glory  it  and  share  it  all, 

In  seas  of  blood  and  tears  f 


RUTH   COMFORT   MITCHELL  189 

They  are  braggart  attitudes  we've  worn  so  long; 
They  are  tinsel  platitudes  ice've  sworn  so  long  — 

We  who  have  turned  the  Devirs  Grindstone, 

Borne  with  the  hell  called  War! 

—  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell. 


190  HARRIET  MONROE 


ON  THE   PORCH 

As  I  lie  roofed  in,  screened  in, 
From  the  pattering  rain, 
The  summer  rain  — 
As  I  lie 
Snug  and  dry, 
And  hear  the  birds  complain : 

Oh,  billow  on  billow, 
Oh,  roar  on  roar. 
Over  me  wash 
The  seas  of  war. 
Over  me  —  down  —  down  — 
Lunges  and  plunges 
The  huge  gun  with  its  one  blind  eye, 
The  armored  train. 
And,  swooping  out  of  the  sky, 
The  aeroplane. 
Down  —  down  — 
The  army  proudly  swinging 
Under  gay  flags, 

The  glorious  dead  heaped  up  like  rags, 
A  church  with  bronze  bells  ringing, 
A  city  all  towers. 


HARRIET   MOXROE  191 

Gardens  of  lovers  and  flowers, 

The  round  world  swinging 

In  the  light  of  the  sun : 

All  broken,  undone, 

All  down  —  under 

Black  surges  of  thunder  .  .  . 

Oh,  billow  on  billow 
Oh,  roar  on  roar, 
Over  me  wash 
The  seas  of  war  .  .  . 

As  I  lie  roofed  in,  screened  in, 
From  the  pattering  rain, 
The  summer  rain  — 
As  I  lie 
Snug  and  dry, 
And  hear  the  birds  complain. 

—  Harriet  Monroe. 


192  N.   M.   H. 


A.  S.  K. 

July  14,  1915 
You  must  not  mourn  for  him,  he  that  went  out  to 

France, 
He,  like  the  rest  of  them,  clear-minded,  open-eyed, 
It  was  for  him  to  decide ; 
He  took  his  chance ; 
And  he  is  dead  in  France. 

Oh,  do  not  mourn  for  him,  he  heard  his  country's 

call, 
And  answering,  gave  all  he  had  to  give ; 
Yet  though  they  die,  they  live ; 
Not  dead  at  all 
Those  who  obeyed  that  call. 

No,  no,  it  is  not  wasted,  all  that  love  and  thought, 
It  is  embodied  in  all  truth  and  right ; 
These  pass  not  out  to-night 
Nor  turn  to  nought  — 
Labor  and  love  and  thought. 

N.  M.  H. 


E.   NESBIT  193 


A  SONG  OF  PEACE  AND  HONOR 

We,  men  of  England,  children  of  her  might, 
With  all  our  mother's  record-roll  of  glory. 

Great  with  her  greatness,  noble  with  her  name, 
Drank    with    our    mother's    milk    our    mother's 
storv, 
And  in  our  veins  the  splendor  of  her  fame 
^lade  strong  our  blood  and  bright ; 
And  to  her  absent  sons  her  name  has  been 
Familiar  music  heard  in  distant  lands, 
Heart  of  our  heart,  and  sinews  of  our  hands, 
England,    our    JMother,    our     Mistress     and     our 
Queen ! 

Out  of  the  thunderous  echoes  of  the  past. 

Through  the  gold  dust  of  centuries,  we  hear 
Her  voice :   "O  children  of  a  royal  line. 

Sons  of  my  heart  who  hold  your  England  dear, 
Mine  was  the  past,  make  ye  the  future  mine 
All  glorious  to  the  last  I" 
And,  as  we  hear  her,  cowards  grow  to  men. 

And  men  to  heroes,  and  the  voice  of  fear 

Is  as  a  whisper  in  a  deaf  man's  ear 
And  the  dead  past  is  quick  in  us  again. 


194  E.   NESBIT 


Her  robe  is  woven  of  glory  and  of  renown, 
Hers  are  the  golden  laden  argosies 

And  lordship  of  the  wild  and  watery  ways, 
Her  flag  is  blown  across  the  utmost  seas ; 

Dead  nations  built  her  throne  and  kingdoms 
blaze 
For  jewels  in  her  crown. 
Her  empire  like  a  girdle  doth  enfold 

The  world ;  her  feet  on  ancient  foes  are  set ; 
She  wears  the  steel-wrought  blood-bright  amulet 
Wrought  by  her  children  in  the  days  of  old. 

Yet  in  a  treasury  of  such  gems  as  these, 

Which  power  and  sovereignty  and  kingship  fill 

To  the  vast  limit  of  the  circling  sun, 
England,  our  Mother,  in  her  heart  holds  still 
As  her  most  precious  jewel,  save  only  one, 

The  priceless  pearl  of  peace  — 

Peace,  plucked  from  out  of  the  very  heart  of  war 
Through  the  long  agony  of  strenuous  years. 
Made  pure  by  blood  and  sanctified  by  tears, 

A  pearl  to  lie  where  England's  treasures  are. 

O  peaceful  English  lanes,  all  white  with  may, 
O  English  meadows  where  the  grass  grows  tall, 
O  red-roofed  village,  field  and  farm  and  fold 
Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  elm-trees  fall 
On  the  wide  pastures  which  the  sun  calls  gold, 
And  twilight  dew  calls  grey ; 


E.    XESBIT  195 


These  are  the  home,  the  happy  cradle  place 
Of  every  man  who  has  our  English  tongue, 
Sprung  from  those  loins  from  which  our  sires  have 
sprung, 

Heirs  of  the  glory  of  our  mighty  race. 

Brothers,  we  hold  the  pearl  of  priceless  worth, 
How  dare  we  then  to  cast  our  pearl  aside  ? 
Is  it  not  more  to  us  than  all  things  are? 
Nay,  peace  is  precious  as  the  world  is  wide. 
But  England's  honor  is  more  precious  far 

Than  all  the  heavens  and  earth. 

^Yere  honor  outcast  from  her  supreme  place 
Our  pearl  of  peace  no  more  a  pearl  would  shine, 
But,  trampled  under  foot  of  dogs  and  swine. 

Rot  in  the  mire  of  a  deserved  disgrace. 

So,  for  our  ^Mother's  honor,  since  it  must, 
Let  peace  be  lost,  but  lost  the  worthier  way. 

Not  trampled  down,  but  given,  for  her  sake, 
Who  forged  of  many  an  iron  yesterday 

The  golden  song  that  gold-tongued  Fame  shall 
wake 
WTien  we  are  dust,  in  dust ; 

For  life  and  love  and  death  and  praise  and  blame, 
And  all  the  world,  even  to  our  very  land. 
Weighed  in  the  balance  are  as  a  grain  of  sand 
Against  the  honor  of  the  English  name  I 

—  E.  Neshit. 


196 


J.   A.   NICKLIN 


THE  FISHER-LAD 

"Farewell  and  good-bye  to  you,  maiden  of  Teifi, 
Farewell  and  good-bye  to  you,  dear  Teifi  maid ! 

The  jolly-boat's  waiting,  I'm  off  in  a  jiffy, 
To  scouting  and  cruising,  to  chase  and  to  raid. 

"Ah,  cariad,  say,  when  you  see  in  the  offing. 
Dark  on  the  blue  waters  of  Cardigan  Bay, 

Our   smoke-stack  just  showing,  then  will   you   be 
doffing 
Your  bonnet  to  wave  us  a  parting  '  huzzay '  ? 

"Once  homeward  I'd  run,  tho'  the  black  scud  was 
flying, 
And    the  breakers  were  howling  like  fiends    on 
our  lee, 
With  every  stitch  set,  ever  danger  defying. 

For,  anwyl,  I  know  that  you  watched  on  the  quay, 

"In    vain  will    you    watch    for    your    fisher-lad's 
skiff,  he 
Is  tracking  the  death  that  the  foeman  has  laid ; 
If  Death  is  the  end  of  it,  dear  maid  of  Teifi, 

Farewell  and  good-bye  to  you,  dear  Teifi  maid !" 

—  J.  A.  Nicklin. 


ALFRED   XOYES  197 


THE  SEARCHLIGHTS 

Political  morality  differs  from  individual  morality,  be- 
cause there  is  no  power  above  the  State. 

—  General  von  Bernhardi. 

Sh.\dow  by  shadow,  stripped  for  fight 
The  lean  black  cruisers  search  the  sea. 

Xight-long  their  level  shafts  of  light 
Revolve,  and  find  no  enemy. 

Only  they  know  each  leaping  wave 

May  hide  the  lightning,  and  their  grave. 

And  in  the  land  they  guard  so  well 
Is  there  no  silent  watch  to  keep  ? 

An  age  is  dying,  and  the  bell 

Rings  midnight  on  a  vaster  deep. 

But  over  all  its  waves,  once  more 

The  searchlights  move,  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  captains  that  we  thought  were  dead. 
And  dreamers  that  we  thought  were  dumb, 

And  voices  that  we  thought  were  fled, 
Arise,  and  call  us,  and  we  come ; 

And  "search  in  thine  own  soul,"  they  cry; 

"For  there,  too,  lurks  thine  enemy." 


198  ALFRED  NOYES 

Search  for  the  foe  in  thine  own  soul, 
The  sloth,  the  intellectual  pride ; 

The  trivial  jest  that  veils  the  goal 
For  which  our  fathers  lived  and  died ; 

The  lawless  dreams,  the  cynic  Art, 

That  rend  thy  nobler  self  apart. 

Not  far,  not  far  into  the  night, 

These  level  swords  of  light  can  pierce ; 

Yet  for  her  faith  does  England  fight, 
Her  faith  in  this  our  universe, 

Believing  Truth  and  Justice  draw 

From  founts  of  everlasting  law ; 

The  law  that  rules  the  stars,  our  stay. 

Our  compass  through  the  world's  wide  sea. 

The  one  sure  light,  the  one  sure  way. 
The  one  firm  base  of  Liberty ; 

The  one  firm  road  that  men  have  trod 

Through  Chaos  to  the  throne  of  God. 


*o^ 


Therefore  a  Power  above  the  State, 
The  unconquerable  Power  returns. 

The  fire,  the  fire  that  made  her  great 
Once  more  upon  her  altar  burns. 

Once  more,  redeemed  and  healed  and  whole. 

She  moves  to  the  Eternal  Goal. 

—  Alfred  Noyes. 


0.  ^r.  199 


ISUSTER   AND   PUPIL 

(To  J.  F.  R.) 

Tw'O  years  ago  I  taught  him  Greek, 

And  used  to  give  him  hints  on  bowling : 
His  classics  were  a  trifle  weak ; 

His  "action"  needed  some  controlling. 
Convinced  of  my  superior  nous 

I  thought  him  crude,  and  I  was  rather 
Inclined,  as  master  of  his  House, 

To  treat  him  like  a  heavy  father. 

I  wrote  the  usual  reports 

Upon  his  "lack  of  concentration"  ; 
Though  certainly  at  winter  Sports 

He  did  not  earn  this  condemnation. 
I  took  him  out  San  Moritz  way 

One  Christmas,  and  our  roles  inverted, 
For  in  the  land  of  ski  and  sleigh 

His  mastery  was  soon  asserted. 

I  thought  him  just  a  normal  lad, 
Well-mannered,  wholesome,  unaffected ; 

The  makings  of  a  Galahad 

In  him  I  had  not  yet  detected  ; 


200  O.  M. 

And  when  I  strove  to  mend  his  style. 

Blue-penciling  his  exercises, 
I  little  guessed  that  all  the  while 

His  soul  was  ripe  for  high  emprises. 

Two  years  ago !  and  here  I  am. 

Rejected  as  unfit ;  still  trying 
(As  Verrall  taught  me  on  the  Cam) 

To  make  Greek  Plays  electrifying. 
And  he  who,  till  he  was  eighteen, 

Found  life  one  long  excuse  for  laughing. 
For  eighteen  solid  months  has  been 

Continuously  "strafed"  or  "strafing." 

He  writes  me  letters  from  the  front 

Which  prove,  although  he  doesn't  know  it. 
That  though  his  words  are  plain  and  blunt, 

He  has  the  vision  of  a  poet ; 
And  lately,  on  his  eight  days'  rest, 

After  long  months  of  hard  campaigning, 
He  came,  and  lo  !  an  angel  guest 

I  was  aware  of  entertaining. 

About  himself  he  seldom  spoke, 
But  often  of  his  widowed  mother. 

And  how  she  nobly  bore  the  stroke 
That  robbed  them  of  his  sailor  brother. 


0.   M.  201 

And  still,  from  loyalty  or  whim, 

He  would  defer  to  my  opinion, 
Unconscious  how  I  envied  him 

His  hard-earned  gift  of  self-dominion. 

For  he  had  faced  the  awful  King 

Of  Shadows  in  the  darksome  Vallev, 
And  scorned  the  terrors  of  his  sting 

In  many  a  perilous  storm  and  sally. 
Firm  in  the  faith  that  never  tires 

Or  thinks  that  man  is  God-forsaken, 
From  war's  fierce  seven-times-heated  fires 

He  had  emerged  unseared,  unshaken. 

There  are,  alas  !  no  sons  of  mine 

To  serve  their  country  in  her  trial, 
Embattled  in  the  cause  divine 

Of  sacrifice  and  self-denial ; 
But  if  there  were,  I  could  not  pray 

That  God  might  shield  them  from  disaster 
More  strongly  than  I  plead  to-day 

For  this  my  pupil  and  my  master. 

—  O.M. 


202      "OBSERVER,   ROYAL   FLYING   CORPS" 


TWO  PICTURES 

Daivn.  .  .  . 

And  the  dewy  plain 

Awakes  to  life  and  sound  — 

Where  on  the  flying-ground 

The  ghostly  hangars  blaze  with  lights  again. 

The  giant  birds  of  prey 
Creep  forth  to  a  new  day, 
And  one  by  one, 
As  morning  gilds  the  dome, 
Leave  the  grey  aerodrome  — 

—  The  day's  begun. 

Dusk.  ... 

And  the  vanish'd  sun 

Still  streaks  the  evening  skies : 

Below,  the  prone  Earth  lies 

Darken'd,  wherever  warring  Night  has  won. 

The  'planes,  returning,  show 
Deep  black  in  the  afterglow. 
And  one  by  one 

Drop  down  from  the  higher  airs, 
—  Down,  down  the  invisible  stairs  — 

—  The  day  is  done. 

—  "  Observer,  Royal  Flying  Corps. ' 


WILL   H.   OGILVIE  203 


CANADIANS 

With  arrows  on  their  quarters  and  with  numbers  on 

their  hoofs, 
With  the  trampling  sound  of  twenty  that  re-echoes 

in  the  roofs, 
Low  of  crest  and  dull  of  coat,  wan  and  wild  of  eye, 
Through  our  English  village  the  Canadians  go  by. 

Shying  at  a  passing  cart,  swerving  from  a  car, 
Tossing  up  an  anxious  head  to  flaunt  a  snowy  star. 
Racking  at  a  Yankee  gait,  reaching  at  the  rein. 
Twenty  raw  Canadians  are  tasting  life  again ! 

Hollow-necked  and  hollow-flanked,  lean  of  rib  and  hip. 
Strained  and  sick  and  weary  with  the  wallow  of  the 

ship. 
Glad  to  smell  the  turf  again,  hear  the  robin's  call. 
Tread  again  the  country  road  they  lost  at  Montreal ! 

Fate  may  bring  them  dule  and  woe;    better  steeds 

than  they 
Sleep  beside  the  English  guns  a  hundred  leagues 

away ; 
But  till  war  hath  need  of  them  lightly  lie  their  reins, 
Softly  full  the  feet  of  them  along  the  English  lanes. 

—  Will  II.  Ogilvle. 


204      MAJOR  SYDNEY  OSWALD 


THE  DEAD  SOLDIER 

Thy  dear  brown  eyes  which  were  as  depths  where 
truth 
Lay  bowered  with  froHc  joy,  but  yesterday 
Shone  with  the  fire  of  thy  so  guileless  youth, 

Now  ruthless  death  has  dimmed  and  closed  for 
aye. 

Those  sweet  red  lips,  that  never  knew  the  stain 
Of  angry  words  or  harsh,  or  thoughts  unclean, 

Have  sung  their  last  gay  song.     Never  again 
Shall  I  the  harvest  of  their  laughter  glean. 

The  goodly  harvest  of  thy  laughing  mouth 
Is  garnered  in ;  and  lo  !  the  golden  grain 

Of  all  thy  generous  thoughts,  which  knew  no  drouth 
Of  meanness,  and  thy  tender  words  remain 

Stored  in  my  heart ;  and  though  I  may  not  see 
Thy  peerless  form  nor  hear  thy  voice  again, 

The  memory  lives  of  what  thou  wast  to  me, 

We  knew  great  love.  ...     We  have  not  lived  in 

vain. 

—  Sydney  Oswald. 

(Major,  King's  Royal  Rifle  Corps.) 


BARRY   PAIN  205 


THE   KAISER  AND  GOD 

("I  rejoice  with  you  in  Wilhelm's  first  \'ictory.  How 
magnifioently  God  supported  him!"  —  Telegrain  from  the 
Kaiser  to  the  Crown  Princess.) 

Led  by  Wilhelm,  as  you  tell, 
God  has  done  extremely  well ; 
You  with  patroniziiif]:  nod 
Show  that  you  approve  of  God. 
Kaiser,  face  a  question  new  — 
This  —  does  God  approve  of  you  ? 

Broken  pledges,  treaties  torn, 
Your  first  page  of  war  adorn ; 
We  on  fouler  things  must  look 
Who  read  further  in  that  book, 
Where  you  did  in  time  of  war 
All  that  you  in  peace  forswore, 
Where  you,  barbarously  wise. 
Bade  your  soldiers  terrorize, 

\Miere  you  made  —  the  deed  was  fine  — 

Women  screen  your  firing  line. 

Villages  burned  down  to  dust, 

Torture,  murder,  bestial  lust, 

Filth  too  foul  for  printer's  ink. 

Crimes  from  which  the  apes  would  shrink  — 


206  BARRY  PAIN 


Strange  the  offerings  that  you  press 
On  the  God  of  Righteousness ! 

Kaiser,  when  you'd  decorate 
Sons  or  friends  who  serve  your  State, 
Not  that  Iron  Cross  bestow. 
But  a  Cross  of  Wood,  and  so  — 
So  remind  the  world  that  you 
Have  made  Calvary  anew. 

Kaiser,  when  you'd  kneel  in  prayer 
Look  upon  your  hands,  and  there 
Let  that  deep  and  awful  stain 
From  the  blood  of  children  slain 
Burn  your  very  soul  with  shame, 
Till  you  dare  not  breathe  that  Name 
That  now  you  glibly  advertise  — 
God  as  one  of  your  allies. 

Impious  braggart,  you  forget ; 
God  is  not  your  conscript  yet ; 
You  shall  learn  in  dumb  amaze 
That  His  ways  are  not  your  ways, 
That  the  mire  through  which  you  trod 
Is  not  the  high  white  road  of  God, 

To  Whom,  whichever  loay  the  combat  rolls, 
We,  fighting  to  the  end,  commend  our  souls. 

—  Barry  Pain. 


JOSEPHIXE  PRESTON   PEABODY         207 


MEN  HAVE  WINGS  AT  LAST 

(Air-Craft  and  the  War) 

"  Wolf,  Wolf-stay-at-home, 

Prowler,  —  scout, 

Clanless  and  castaways, 

And  ailing  with  the  drought. 

Out  from  your  hidings,  —  hither  to  the  call ; 

Lift  up  your  eyes  to  the  high  wind-fall ! 

Lift  up  your  eyes  from  the  poisoned  spring ; 

Overhead,  —  overhead  !     The  dragon  Thing, 

—  What  should  it  bring  ? 

—  Poising  on  the  wing  ?  " 

"  Wolf,  Wolf,  Old  one,  I  saw  it,  even  I. 
Yesterday,  yesterday,  the  Thing  came  by 
Prowling  at  the  outpost  of  the  last  lean  wood, 
By  the  gray  waste  ashes  where  the  minster  stood  ; 
And  out  through  the  cloister  where  the  belfry  fronts 
The  market-place,  and  the  town  was  once ; 
High,  —  high  above  the  bright  wide  square 
And  the  folk  all  flocking  together,  unaware, 
The  Thing-with-the-wings  came  there. 

Brother  \'ulture  saw  it 

And  called  me,  as  it  passed : 


208    JOSEPHINE  PRESTON   PEA  BODY 

'  Look  and  see,  look  and  see,  — 
Men  have  wings  at  last.' 

"By  the  eyeless  belfry  I  saw  it,  overhead, 

Poised  like  a  hawk,  —  like  a  storm  unshed. 

Near  the  huddled  doves  there,  from  the  shattered 

cote, 
I  watched  too.  .  .  .    And  it  smote ! 

"  Not  a  threat  of  thunder,  —  not  an  armed  man, 
Where  the  fury  struck,  and  the  fleet  fire  ran.  — 
But  girl-child,  man-child,  mothers  and  their  young, 
Newborn  of  woman,  with  milk  upon  its  tongue ; 
Nursling  where  it  clung. 

"  Not  a  talon  reached  they,  yet,  the  lords  of  prey ! 
But  left  the  red  dregs  there,  rent  and  cast  away ; 
Fled  from  the  spoils  there,  scattered  things  accurst : 

—  It  was  not  for  hunger ; 
It  was  not  for  thirst. 

"From  the  eyeless  belfry. 
Brother  Vulture  laughed : 
'  This  is  all  we  have  to  see 
For  his  master-craft  f 

—  Old  ones,  and  lean  ones, 
Never  now  to  fast. 

Men  have  wings  at  last ! ' 


JOSEPHINE   PRESTON   PEABODY         209 

"Brought  they  any  tidings  for  us  from  the  Sun?" 

"Xo,  my  chief,  not  one," 
"Left  they  not  a  road-sign,  how  the  way  was  won?" 

"  Xo,  my  chief,  none. 
But  girl-child,  man-child,  creature  yet  unborn, 
Doe  and  fawn  together  so,  weltering  and  torn, 
X'ewborn  of  woman  where  the  flag-stones  bled ; 
(Better  can  the  vultures  do,  for  the  shamed  dead.) 
Road-dust  sobbing  where  the  lightning  burst  — 

It  was  not  for  hunger ; 

It  was  not  for  thirst." 

"Brought  they  not  some  token  that  the  stars  look 
on?" 

—  "X'o,  my  chief,  none." 

"X'ever  yet  a  message  from  the  highways  over- 
head?" 

—  "Brother,  I  have  said." 

"Old  years,  gray  years,  years  of  growing  things, 
We  have  toiled  and  kept  the  watch  with  our  wonder- 

ings; 
But  to  see  what  things  should  be,  when  that  Men 

had  wings. 

"Sea-mark,  sea-wall,  —  ships  above  the  tide; 
Mine  and  mole-way  under-earth,  to  have  its  hidden 

pride ;  — 
Not  enough,  not  enough  ;   more  and  more  beside  1 

p 


210         JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 

"  Bridle,  for  our  proud-of-mane,  —  then  the  triple 

yoke; 
Ox-goad  and  lash  again,  and  bonded  fellow-folk ! 
Not  enough ;    not  enough  ;  —  for  his  master-stroke. 
Thunder  trapped  and  muttering  and  led  away  for 

thrall ; 
Lightnings  leashed  together  then,  at  his  beck  and 

call; 
Not  enough ;  not  enough ;  —  for  his  Wherewithal  I 

"  He  must  look  with  evil  eye 
On  the  spaces  of  the  sky  : 

He  must  scheme,  and  try  !  — 
While  all  we,  with  dread  and  awe, 
Sheathing  and  unsheathing  claw, 

Watch  apart,  and  prophesy 
That  we  never  saw.  — 

"  Wings,  to  seek  his  more-and-more 

Where  we  knew  us  blind ; 
Wings  to  make  him  conqueror. 

With  his  master-mind ; 
Wings,  that  he  out-watch,  —  out-soar. 

Eagle  and  his  kind  ! 

"  Lo,  the  dream  fulfilled  at  last !  —  And  the  dread 

outgrown, 
Broken,  as  a  bird's  heart ;  —  fallen  as  a  stone 
....  What  was  he,  to  make  afraid  ? 


JOSEPHINE   PRESTON   PEABODY         211 


—  Hating  all  that  he  had  made? 

—  Hating  all  his  own. 

"  Scatter  to  your  strongholds,  till  the  race  is  run. 

Doe  and  fawn  together,  so,  soon  it  will  be  done. 

Never  now,  never  now.  Ship  without  a  mast, 

In  the  harbors  of  the  Sun,  do  you  make  fast  1 
But  the  floods  shall  cleanse  again 
Every  blackened  trail  of  Men,  — 
Men  with  wings,  at  last !" 

—  Josephine  Preston  Peabody. 


212 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 


RE\^NGE  FOR  RHEIMS 

Thou  Permanence  amid  all  things  that  pass  I 
Unchanging  Thought  amid  the  drift  of  change ; 
Thou  Rally  of  the  Soul  in  days  of  dross ; 
How  art  Thou  fallen  ! 

Thou  Prayer,  that  ever-rising,  yet  remained, 
That  for  seven  hundred  years  didst  sing  and  soar. 
Spirit  with  wings  outspread  tip-toe  on  Earth, 
How  art  Thou  fallen  ! 

Thou  Vision  frozen,  and  Thou  Sigh  transfixed ; 
Thou  Camp  of  dreams.  Thou  Fort  of  faith  un- 

stormed. 
Time-worn,  yet  wearying  t'ward  Eternity, 
How  art  Thou  fallen  ! 

Thou  wast  to  France  her  Inspiration  old. 
Thou  hadst  for  ivy  earliest  memories ; 
From  Thee  her  Knights,  her  Angels  long  looked  down ; 
How  art  Thou  fallen ! 

What  vengeance  for  Thy  ruin  shall  She  hurl  ? 
O,  be  that  vengeance,  that  the  ruin  stand. 
Only  those  Choirs  for  ever  unrestored  ! 
Ever  unfallen ! 

—  Stephen  Phillips. 


MARJORIE  L.    C.    PICKTHALL  213 


CANADA  TO  ENGLAND 

Great  names  of  thy  great  captains  gone  before 
Beat  with  our  blood,  who  have  that  blood  of  thee ; 
Raleigh  and  Grenville,  Wolfe,  and  all  the  free 
Fine  souls  who  dared  to  front  a  world  in  war. 
Such  only  may  outreach  the  envious  years 
Where  feebler  crowns  and  fainter  stars  remove, 
Nurtured  in  one  remembrance  and  one  love 
Too  high  for  passion  and  too  stern  for  tears. 

O  little  isle  our  fathers  held  for  home, 
Not,  not  alone  thy  standards  and  thy  hosts 
Lead  where  thy  sons  shall  follow,  Mother  Land : 
Quick  as  the  north  wind,  ardent  as  the  foam. 
Behold,  behold  the  invulnerable  ghosts 
Of  all  past  greatnesses  about  thee  stand. 

—  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall. 


214  JESSIE  POPE 


SOCKS 

Shining  pins  that  dart  and  click 
In  the  fireside's  sheltered  peace 

Check  the  thoughts  that  cluster  thick  — 
20  plain  and  then  decrease. 

He  was  brave  —  well,  so  was  I  — 

Keen  and  merry,  but  his  lip 
Quivered  when  he  said  good-bye  — 

Purl  the  seam-stitch,  purl  and  slip. 

Never  used  to  living  rough, 

Lots  of  things  he'd  got  to  learn ; 

Wonder  if  he's  warm  enough  — 
Knit  2,  catch  2,  knit  1,  turn. 

Hark !  The  paper-boys  again ! 

Wish  that  shout  could  be  suppressed ; 
Keeps  one  always  on  the  strain  — 

Knit  off  9,  and  slip  the  rest. 

Wonder  if  he's  fighting  now. 

What  he's  done  an'  where  he's  been ; 

He'll  come  out  on  top,  somehow  — 
Slip  1,  knit  2,  purl  14- 

—  Jessie  Pope. 


CHARLES  G.   D.    ROBERTS  215 


TO  SHAKESPEARE,   1916 

With  what  white  wrath  must  turn  thy  bones, 
What  stern  amazement  flame  thy  dust. 

To  feel  so  near  this  England's  heart 
The  outrage  of  the  assassin's  thrust. 

But  surely,  too,  thou  art  consoled,  — 

^^'ho  knewest  thy  stalwart  breed  so  well,  — 

To  see  us  rise  from  sloth  and  go, 

Plain  and  unbragging,  through  this  hell. 

And  surely,  too,  thou  art  assured  I 

Hark  how  that  grim  and  gathering  beat 

Draws  upwards  from  the  ends  of  earth  — 
The  tramp,  tramp  of  thy  kindred's  feet ! 

—  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 


216  A.   MARY  F.    ROBINSON 


BELGIUM  THE  BAR-LASS 

The  night  was  still.    The  King  sat  with  the  Queen. 
She  sang.     Her  maidens  spun.     A  peaceful  scene. 

Sudden,  wild  echoes  shake  the  castle  wall. 
Their  foes  come  crashing  through  the  outer  hall. 

They  rush  like  thunder  down  the  gallery  floor  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Someone  has  stolen  the  bolt  that  bars  the 
door! 

No  pin  to  hold  the  loops,  no  stick,  no  stave. 
Nothing !  An  open  door,  an  open  grave ! 

Then  Catherine  Bar-lass  thrust  her  naked  arm 
(A  girl's  arm,  white  as  milk,  alive  and  warm) 

Right  through  the  loops  from  which   the  bolt  was 

gone : 
"  'Twill  hold  (she  said)  until  they  break  the  bone  — 

My  King,  you  have  one  instant  to  prepare!" 
She  said  no  more,  because  the  thrust  was  there. 


Oft  have  I  heard  that  tale  of  Scotland's  King 
The  Poet,  and  Kate  the  Bar-lass.     (Men  will  sing 


.4.    MARY   F.    ROBINSON  217 

For  aye  the  deed  one  moment  brings  to  birth  — 
Such  moments  are  the  ransom  of  our  Earth.) 

Brave  Belgium,  Bar-lass  of  our  western  world, 
Wlio,  when  the  treacherous  Prussian  tyrant  hurled 

His  hordes  against  our  peace,  thrust  a  slight  hand, 
So  firm,  to  bolt  our  portals  and  withstand, 

Whatever  prove  the  glory  of  our  affray, 
Thine  arm,  thy  heart,  thine  act  have  won  the  day  I 

—  A.  Mary  F.  Robinson. 
(Madame  Duclaux.) 


218  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 


CASSANDRA 

I  HEARD  one  who  said  :  "  Verily, 

What  word  have  I  for  children  here  ? 

Your  Dollar  is  your  only  Word, 
The  wrath  of  It  your  only  fear. 

"You  build  it  altars  tall  enough 
To  make  you  see,  but  you  are  blind ; 

You  cannot  leave  it  long  enough 
To  look  before  you  or  behind. 

"  When  Reason  beckons  you  to  pause, 
You  laugh  and  say  that  you  know  best ; 

But  what  it  is  you  know,  you  keep 
As  dark  as  ingots  in  a  chest. 

"  You  laugh  and  answer,  '  We  are  young ; 

O  leave  us  now,  and  let  us  grow.'  — 
Not  asking  how  much  more  of  this 

Will  Time  endure  or  Fate  bestow. 

"Because  a  few  complacent  years 
Have  made  your  peril  of  your  pride, 

Think  you  that  you  are  to  go  on 
Forever  pampered  and  untried  ? 


EDWIX  ARLIXGTON^   ROBIXSON  219 

"What  lost  eclipse  of  history, 
What  bivouac  of  the  marching  stars, 

Has  given  the  sign  for  you  to  see 
^Millenniums  and  last  great  wars? 

"^^^lat  unrecorded  overthrow 
Of  all  the  world  has  ever  known. 

Or  even  been,  has  made  itself 
So  plain  to  you,  and  j'ou  alone? 

"Your  Dollar,  Dove  and  Eagle  make 

A  Trinity  that  even  you 
Rate  higher  than  you  rate  yourselves ; 

It  pays,  it  flatters,  and  it's  new. 

"  And  though  your  very  flesh  and  blood 
Be  what  your  Eagle  eats  and  drinks. 

You'll  praise  him  for  the  best  of  birds. 
Not  knowing  what  the  Eagle  thinks. 

"  The  power  is  yours,  but  not  the  sight ; 

You  see  not  upon  what  you  tread  ; 
You  have  the  ages  for  your  guide, 

But  not  the  wisdom  to  be  led. 

"Think  you  to  tread  forcNcr  down 

The  merciless  old  verities? 
And  are  you  never  to  have  eyes 

To  see  the  world  for  what  it  is  ? 


220    EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

"Are  you  to  pay  for  what  you  have 
With  all  you  are  ?  "  —  No  other  word 

We  caught,  but  with  a  laughing  crowd 
Moved  on.     None  heeded,  and  few  heard. 
—  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson. 


SIR   RONALD   ROSS  221 


SHAKESPEArxE,   1916 

Now  when  the  sinking  Sun  reeketh  with  blood, 
And  the  gore-gushing  vapors  rent  by  him 
Rend  him  and  bury  him  :  now  the  World  is  dim 
As  when  great  thunders  gather  for  the  flood, 
And  in  the  darkness  men  die  where  they  stood, 
And  dying  slay,  or  scatter'd  limb  from  limb 
Cease  in  a  flash  where  mad-eyed  cherubim 
Of  Death  destroy  them  in  the  night  and  mud  : 
\Mien  landmarks  vanish  —  murder  is  become 
A  glory  —  cowardice,  conscience  —  and  to  lie, 
A  law  —  to  govern,  but  to  serve  a  time  :  — 
We  dying,  lifting  bloodied  eyes  and  dumb. 
Behold  the  silver  star  serene  on  high. 
That  is  thy  spirit  there,  O  Master  Mind  sublime. 

—  Ronald  Ross. 


222  CARL  SANDBURG 


STATISTICS 

Napoleon  shifted 

Restless  in  the  old  sarcophagus 

And  murmured  to  a  watchguard : 

"Who  goes  there?" 

"Twenty-one  million  men. 

Soldiers,  armies,  guns, 

Twenty-one  million 

Afoot,  horseback. 

In  the  air, 

Under  the  sea." 

And  Napoleon  turned  to  his  sleep : 

"  It  is  not  my  world  answering ; 

It  is  some  dreamer  who  knows  not 

The  world  I  marched  in 

From  Calais  to  Moscow." 

And  he  slept  on 

In  the  old  sarcophagus 

While  the  aeroplanes 

Droned  their  motors 

Between  Napoleon's  mausoleum 

And  the  cool  night  stars. 

—  Carl  Sandburg. 


JOHN  SAX  DBS  223 


AUSTRALIANS  TO  THE  FRONT! 

(Captain  Cook  hears  the  Drums) 

From  the  Scheldt  to  the  Niemen, 

Hark,  the  music  of  the  drums ! 
Not  unthrilled  the  souls  of  freemen 

When  that  instant  message  comes. 
Rolling  east  the  wild  fantasia 

Stirs  the  Orient  blood  to  flame ; 
And  the  drums  call  Austral-asia 

And  she  answers  to  her  name. 

Far  away  from  hosts  in  battle, 

Yet  in  time  with  marching  feet. 
Here  and  now  the  war-drums  rattle 

In  the  sunbright  city  street. 
Horse  and  foot  in  martial  manner, 

Swift  commands,  and  glances  high, 
Naked  steel  and  silken  banner ; 

Thus  the  ranks  go  proudly  by. 

But  within  the  gardens  spacious. 
Not  a  stone's  throw  from  the  crowd 

One  who  fronts  the  landscape  gracious 
Listens  to  the  war-drums  loud. 


224 


JOHN  SANDES 


Beats  the  eager  drummer  harder, 
And  methinks  the  bronze  can  hear, 

In  those  eyes  a  flash  of  ardor  ! 
On  that  cheek  a  noble  tear  ! 


d 


Dauntless  Captain,  did'st  thou  ever. 

With  thy  sailor-eyes  of  gray 
Searching  out  from  thy  endeavor 

That  sequestered  flower-starred  bay, 
Dream  that  some  day  those  who  love  thee 

Here  would  stake  their  all  of  worth. 
For  the  flag  that  waved  above  thee 

And  the  land  that  gave  thee  birth  ? 

And  the  dauntless  Captain  listens : 

Ah,  if  only  he  could  speak ! 
But  a  vagrant  raindrop  glistens 

On  that  scorched  and  blistered  cheek, 
And  the  faith  that  does  not  falter 

Still  may  hear  his  whisper  low : 
*'Son,  this  new  land  doth  not  alter 

Britain's  breed  of  long  ago." 

—  John  Sandes. 


EGBERT  SAXDFORD  225 


HER   PRAYER  — FOR   HIM 

I  DO  not  ask  that  he  may  never  yield 
When  fighting  on  the  foam  or  on  the  field, 
Since  this  I  know  :  — 
Where'er  his  country  calls  my  man  will  go. 

I  only  pray 

That  while  he  is  away 

You  guard  and  guide  him  day  by  day  ! 

And  give  me  strength  to  tend  his  little  ones 

Until  he  comes. 

On  land  or  sea,  — 
Wherever  he  may  be, 
God,  kiss  my  man  for  me  ! 

—  Egbert  Sandford. 


1 

226  CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


THE  VALE  OF  SHADOWS 

There  is  a  vale  in  the  Flemish  land, 

A  vale  once  fair  to  see, 
Where  under  the  sweep  of  the  sky's  wide  arch. 
Though  winter  freeze  or  summer  parch. 
The  stately  poplars  march  and  march, 

Remembering  Lombardy. 

Here  are  men  of  the  Saxon  eyes. 

Men  of  the  Saxon  heart, 
Men  of  the  fens  and  men  of  the  Peak, 
Men  of  the  Kentish  meadows  sleek, 
Men  of  the  Cornwall  cove  and  creek. 

Men  of  the  Dove  and  Dart. 

Here  are  men  of  the  kilted  clans 

From  the  heathery  slopes  that  lie 
Where  the  mists  hang  gray  and  the  mists  hang  white, 
And  the  deep  lochs  brood  'neath  the  craggy  height, 
And  the  curlews  scream  in  the  moonless  night 

Over  the  hills  of  the  Skye. 

Here  are  men  of  the  Celtic  breed, 
Lads  of  the  smile  and  tear. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD  227 

From  where  the  loops  of  the  Shannon  flow, 
And  the  crosses  gleam  in  the  even-glow, 
And  the  halls  of  Tara  now  are  low. 
And  Donegal  cliffs  are  sheer. 

And  never  a  word  does  one  man  speak, 

Each  in  his  narrow  bed, 
F'or  this  is  the  Vale  of  Long  Release, 
This  is  the  Vale  of  the  Lasting  Peace, 
Where  wars,  and  the  rumors  of  wars,  shall  cease, 

The  valley  of  the  dead. 

No  more  are  they  than  the  scattered  scud, 

No  more  than  broken  reeds. 
No  more  than  shards  or  shattered  glass, 
Than  dust  blown  down  the  winds  that  pass, 
Than  trampled  wefts  of  pampas-grass 

When  the  wild  herd  stampedes. 

In  the  dusk  of  death  they  laid  them  down 

With  naught  of  murmuring, 
And  laughter  rings  through  the  House  of  Mirth 
To  hear  the  vaunt  of  the  high  of  birth. 
For  what  are  all  the  kings  of  earth 

Before  the  one  great  King  ! 

And  what  shall  these  proud  war-lords  say 
At  foot  of  His  mighty  throne? 


228  CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

For  there  shall  dawn  a  reckoning  day, 
Or  soon  or  late,  come  as  it  may, 
Wlien  those  who  gave  the  sign  to  slay 
Shall  meet  His  face  alone. 

What,  think  ye,  will  their  penance  be 

Who  have  wrought  this  monstrous  crime  ? 

What  shall  whiten  their  blood-red  hands 

Of  the  stains  of  riven  and  ravished  lands  ? 

How  shall  they  answer  God's  stern  commands 
At  the  last  assize  of  Time  ? 

For  though  we  worship  no  vengeance-god 

Of  madness  and  of  ire. 
No  Presence  grim,  with  a  heart  of  stone. 
Shall  they  not  somehow  yet  atone  ? 
Shall  they  not  reap  as  they  have  sown 

Of  fury  and  of  fire  ? 

There  is  a  vale  in  the  Flemish  land 
Where  the  lengthening  shadows  spread 

When  day,  with  crimson  sandals  shod. 

Goes  home  athwart  the  mounds  of  sod 

That  cry  in  silence  up  to  God 
From  the  valley  of  the  dead  ! 

—  Clinton  Scollard. 


F.   G.   SCOTT  229 


REQUIESCAXT 

On  lonely  watches,  night  by  night, 
Great  visions  burst  upon  my  sight, 
For  down  the  stretches  of  the  sky 
The  hosts  of  dead  go  marching  by. 

Strange  ghostly  banners  o'er  them  float. 
Strange  bugles  sound  an  awful  note. 
And  all  their  faces  and  their  eyes 
Are  lit  with  starlight  from  the  skies. 

The  anguish  and  the  pain  have  passed 
And  peace  hath  come  to  them  at  last ; 
But  in  the  stern  looks  linger  still 
The  iron  purpose  and  the  will. 

Dear  Christ,  who  reign 'st  above  the  flood 

Of  human  tears  and  human  blood, 

A  weary  road  these  men  have  trod  : 

0  house  them  in  the  home  of  God  ! 

—  F.  G.  Scott. 
Near  Ypros.  May,  1915. 

(Major,  .'ird  Brigade,  Canadian  Division,  British  Expedi- 
tionary Force.) 


230  SIR  OWEN   SEAMAN 


THE  WAYSIDE  CALVARY 

(Lines  written  on  the  anniversary  of  the  outbreak  of  the 

war.) 

Now  with  the  full  year  Memory  holds  her  tryst 
Heavy  with  such  a  tale  of  bitter  loss 
As  never  Earth  has  suffered  since  the  Christ 
Hung  for  us  on  the  Cross. 


If  God,  O  Kaiser,  makes  the  vision  plain : 
Gives  you  on  some  lone  Calvary  to  see 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  Who  endured  the  pain 
And  died  to  set  us  free  — 


How  will  you  face  beneath  its  Crown  of  thorn 
That  Figure  stark  against  the  smoking  skies, 
The  Arms  outstretched,  the  Sacred  Head  forlorn 
And  those  reproachful  Eyes  ? 

How  dare  confront  the  false  quest  with  the  true 
Or  think  what  gulfs  between  the  ideals  lie 
Of  Him  Who  died  that  men  might  live  —  and  you 
Who  live  that  men  may  die. 


SIR   OWEX  SEAMAN  231 

Ah,  turn  your  eyes  away :  He  reads  your  heart ; 
Pass  on  and,  having  done  your  work  abhorred, 
Join  hands  with  Judas  in  his  place  apart. 
You  who  betrayed  ycuir  Lord. 

—  Owen  Seaman, 


232  ALAN   SEEGER 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH   DEATH 

I  HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade, 

When  Spring  comes  round  with  rustHng  shade 

And  apple  blossoms  fill  the  air. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 


It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath ; 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow  flowers  appear. 


God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear. 


■ 


ALAX  SEEGER  233 


Hut  r\c  a  rcikiezNOUi  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
^^^^en  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

—  Alan  Seeger. 
(Killed  in  battle  at  Belloy-en-Santerre,  July,  1916.) 


234  "SERANUS" 


THE  MOTHER 

Out  of  the  bitter,  the  sweet ; 

Out  of  the  pain,  the  joy ; 
Out  of  the  mists,  the  morning  star ; 

Out  of  my  travail,  my  boy. 

Out  of  old  flesh,  new  flesh ; 

Out  of  old  bone,  new  bone ; 
Out  of  my  side,  my  treasure  and  pride ; 

My  breast  his  earliest  throne. 

Stiff  in  the  trenches,  and  stark ; 

Dead  'ere  the  battle  was  won ; 
For  that  which  is  Right,  for  Love  and  Light, 

Freely  I  gave  my  son. 

After  the  bitter,  the  sweet ; 

After  the  pain,  the  joy  — 
I  will  not  falter,  nor  flinch,  nor  faint ; 

Proudly  I  give  my  boy. 

—  "  Seranns." 


THE   REV.    EDWARD  SHILLITO  235 


A  THAXKSGmNG 

Before  the  winter's  haunted  nights  are  o'er, 
I  thankfully  rejoice,  that  stars  look  down 

Above  the  darkened  streets,  and  I  adore 
The  Heavens  in  London  Town. 

The  Heavens,  beneath  which  Alfred  stood,  when  he 
Built  ramparts  by  the  tide  against  his  foes. 

The  skies  men  loved,  when  in  eternity 
The  dreamlike  Abbey  rose ; 

The  Heavens,  whose  glory  has  not  known  increase 
Since  Raleigh  swaggered  home  by  lantern-light, 

And  Shakespeare  looking  upwards  knew  the  peace, 
The  cool  deep  peace  of  night. 

Under  those  Heavens  brave  Wesley  rose  betimes 
To  preach  ere  daybreak  to  the  tender  soul ; 

And  in  the  heart  of  Keats  the  starry  rhymes 
Rolled,  and  for  ever  roll. 

I  too  have  walked  with  them  the  heavenly  ways, 
Tracing  the  sweet  embroideries  of  the  sky, 

And  I  shall  not  forget,  when  arcs  shall  blaze, 
And  all  the  lights  are  high. 

—  Edward  ShillUo. 


236  FRANK  SIDGWICK 


"FORM  FOURS" 
A  volunteer's  nightmare 

If  you're  Volunteer  Artist  or  Athlete,  or  if  you  de- 
fend the  Home, 

You  sacrifice  "Ease"  for  ''Attention/'  and  march 
like  a  metronome ; 

But  of  all  elementary  movements  you  learn  in  your 
Volunteer  Corps 

The  one  that  is  really  perplexing  is  known  as  the 
Forming  of  Fours. 

Imagine  us  numbered  off  from  the  right :  the  Ser- 
geant faces  the  squad, 

And  says  that  the  odd  files  do  not  move  —  I  never 
seem  to  be  odd  ! 

And  then  his  instructions  run  like  this  (very  simple 
in  black  and  white)  — 

"  A  pace  to  the  rear  with  the  left  foot,  and  one  to  the 
right  with  the  right." 

Of  course  if  you  don't  think  deeply,  you  do  it  without 

a  hitch ; 
You  have  only  to  know  your  right  and  left,  and 

remember  which  is  which ; 


FRANK  SIDGWICK  237 

But  as  soon  as  you  try  to  be  careful,  you  get  in  the 

deuce  of  a  plight, 
With  "a  pace  to  the  right  with  the  left  foot,  and  one 

to  the  rear  with  the  right !" 

Besides,  when  you're  thoroughly  muddled  the  Ser- 
geant doubles  your  doubt 

By  saying  that  rules  reverse  themselves,  as  soon  as 
you're  "turned  about"; 

So  round  you  go  on  your  right  heel,  and  practice 
until  you  are  deft 

At  "a  pace  to  the  front  with  the  right  foot,  and  one 
to  the  left  with  the  left." 

In  my  dreams  the  Sergeant,  the  Kaiser,  and  Kipling 

mLx  my  feet, 
Saving  " East  is  left,  and  Right  is  Might,  and  never 

the  twain  shall  meet !" 
In  my  nightmare  squad  all  files  are  odd,  and  their 

Fours  are  horribly  queer. 
With  "  a  pace  to  the  left  with  the  front  foot,  and  one 

to  the  right  with  the  rear  I" 

~F.S. 


238  MAY  SINCLAIR 


FIELD  AMBULANCE  IN  RETREAT 

Via  Dolorosa,  Via  Sacra 


A  STRAIGHT  flagged  road,  laid  on  the  rough  earth, 
A  causeway  of  stone  from  beautiful  city  to  city. 
Between  the  tall  trees,  the  slender,  delicate  trees, 
Through  the  flat  green  land,  by  plots  of  flowers,  by 
black  canals  thick  with  heat. 

II 

The  road-makers  made  it  well 

Of  fine  stone,  strong  for  the  feet  of  the  oxen  and  of 
the  great  Flemish  horses. 

And  for  the  high  wagons  piled  with  corn  from  the 
harvest. 

And  the  laborers  are  few ; 

They  and  their  quiet  oxen  stand  aside  and  wait 

By  the  long  road  loud  with  the  passing  of  the  guns, 
the  rush  of  armored  cars  and  the  tramp  of  an 
army  on  the  march  forward  to  battle ; 

And,  where  the  piled  corn-wagons  went,  our  drip- 
ping Ambulance  carries  home 

Its  red  and  white  harvest  from  the  fields. 


MAY  SINCLAIR  239 


III 

The  straight  flagged  road  breaks  into  dust,  into  a 

thin  white  cloud, 
About  the  feet  of  a  regiment  driven  back  league  by 

league, 
Rifles   at   trail,    and    standards   wrapped    in    black 

funeral  cloths.     Unhasting,  proud  in  retreat, 
Tliey  smile  as  the  Red  Cross  Ambulance  rushes  by. 
(You  know  nothing  of  beauty  and  of  desolation  who 

have  not  seen 
That  smile  of  an  army  in  retreat.) 
They  go :    and  our  shining,  beckoning  danger  goes 

with  them, 
And  our  jo\-  in  the  harvests  that  we  gathered  in  at 

nightfall  in  the  fields; 
And  like  an  unloved  hand  laid  on  a  beating  heart 
Our  safety  weighs  us  down. 

Safety  hard  and  strange  ;  stranger  and  yet  more  hard 
As,  league  after  dying  league,  the  beautiful,  desolate 

Land 
Falls  back  from  the  intolerable  speed  of  an  Ambu- 
lance in  retreat 
On  the  sacred,  dolorous  Way. 

—  May  Siriclair. 


240      THE  REV.   ISAAC  GREGORY  SMITH 


CLOSE  YOUR  RANKS 

Yes  !     Draw  them  close  and  closer  still, 
The  silken  threads,  that  bind  in  one 

The  prince,  the  peasant,  rich  and  poor. 

Hark  !    Hark  !    The  Armageddon  is  begun. 

O  Britons  all,  let  Duty  be 

The  watchword  and  the  panoply. 

The  last  to  draw  the  sword,  but  not 
The  first  to  sheathe  it ;  slow  we  rise 

To  arms.  'Tis  Duty's  stern  behest, 
A  peal  of  thunder  from  the  skies. 

Which  bids  us  to  defend  the  Right 

Against  the  tyranny  of  Might. 

Did  we  forget  in  the  days  gone  by, 
"Not  each  for  each  but  all  for  all," 

The  sacred  bond  of  Brotherhood, 
By  which  great  empires  rise  or  fall  ? 

Nay  !     But  that  evil  dream  is  past. 

That  strange  aloofness  healed  at  last. 

Dear  Isle,  dear  tiny  speck  in  space. 
Responsive  to  thy  drums  of  war, 


THE   REV.   ISAAC  GREGORY  SMITH       241 

And  thrilled  by  loyalty  of  love, 

They  come,  thy  sons  from  shores  afar ; 
Thy  Flag,  fair  floating  on  the  breeze 
Beckons  them  o'er  the  trackless  seas. 

So  far  and  near,  so  one  and  all, 

Though  each  one  differs  from  the  others, 
We  stand  together  as  of  old, 

For  round  the  Flag  we  all  are  brothers. 
And  so  we  close  our  ranks  to  be 
The  phalanx,  which  is  victory. 

—  Isaac  Gregory  Smith. 


242  MARION   C.  SMITH 


HEART  OF  ALL  THE  WORLD 

(Belgium) 

He  ARTSTRUCK  she  stand  s — Our  Lady  of  all  Sorrows — 
Circled  with  ruin,  sunk  in  deep  amaze ; 

Facing  the  shadow  of  her  dark  to-morrows, 
Mourning  the  glory  of  her  yesterdays. 

Yet  is  she  queen  by  every  royal  token. 

There,  where  the  storm  of  desolation  swirled  : 

Crowned    only    with    the    thorn  —  despoiled    and 
broken  — 
Her  kingdom  is  the  heart  of  all  the  world. 

She  made  her  breast  a  shield,  her  sword  a  splendor, 
She  rose  like  flame  upon  the  darkened  ways ; 

So,  through  the  anguish  of  her  proud  surrender 
Breaks  the  clear  vision  of  undying  praise. 

—  Marion  C.  Smith. 


CHARLES  HAMILTON  SORLEY  243 


"ALL  THE   HILLS  AND   VALES   ALONG" 

All  the  hills  and  vales  along 
Earth  is  bursting  into  song, 
And  the  singers  are  the  chaps 
Who  are  going  to  die  perhaps. 

O  sing,  marching  men. 

Till  the  valleys  ring  again. 

Give  your  gladness  to  earth's  keeping, 

So  be  glad,  when  you  are  sleeping. 

Cast  away  regret  and  rue. 
Think  what  you  are  marching  to. 
Little  live,  great  pass. 
Jesus  Christ  and  Barabbas 
Were  found  the  same  day. 
This  died,  that  went  his  way. 

So  sing  with  joyful  breath. 

For  why,  you  are  going  to  death. 

Teeming  earth  will  surely  store 

All  the  gladness  that  you  pour. 

Earth  that  never  doubts  nor  fears, 
Earth  that  knows  of  death,  not  tears, 


244  CHARLES  HAMILTON  SO  RLE  Y 


Earth  that  bore  with  joyful  ease 
Hemlock  for  Socrates, 
Earth  that  blossomed  and  was  glad 
'Neath  the  cross  that  Christ  had, 
Shall  rejoice  and  blossom  too 
When  the  bullet  reaches  you. 

Wherefore,  men  marching 

On  the  road  to  death,  sing ! 

Pour  your  gladness  on  earth's  head. 

So  be  merry,  so  be  dead. 

From  the  hills  and  valleys  earth 

Shouts  back  the  sound  of  mirth, 

Tramp  of  feet  and  lilt  of  song 

Ringing  all  the  road  along. 

All  the  music  of  their  going. 

Ringing,  swinging,  glad  song-throwing, 

Earth  will  echo  still,  when  foot 

Lies  numb  and  voice  mute. 

On,  marching  men,  on 

To  the  gates  of  death  with  song. 

Sow  your  gladness  for  earth's  reaping, 

So  you  may  be  glad,  though  sleeping. 

Strew  your  gladness  on  earth's  bed, 

So  be  merry,  so  be  dead. 

—  Charles  Hamilton  Sorley. 

(Captain,   Seventh   (Service)   Battalion  of  the  Suffolk 
Regiment,  killed  in  action  in  France  on  Oct.  13,  1915.) 


ROBERT  J.   C.   STEAD  245 


KITCHENER  OF  KHARTOUM 

Weep,  waves  of  England  I     Nobler  clay 
Was  ne'er  to  nobler  grave  consigned ; 

The  wild  waves  weep  with  us  to-day 
Who  mourn  a  nation's  master  mind. 

We  hoped  an  honored  age  for  him, 
And  ashes  laid  with  England's  great; 

And  rapturous  music,  and  the  dim 

Deep  hush  that  veils  our  Tomb  of  State. 

But  this  is  better.     Let  him  sleep 
Where  sleep  the  men  who  made  us  free, 

For  England's  heart  is  in  the  deep, 
And  England's  glory  is  the  sea. 

One  only  vow  above  his  bier, 

One  only  oath  beside  his  bed  : 
We  swear  our  flag  shall  shield  him  here 

Until  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead  ! 

Leap,  waves  of  England  !     Boastful  be, 

And  fling  defiance  in  the  blast, 
For  Earth  is  envious  of  the  Sea 

Which  shelters  England's  dead  at  last. 

—  Robert  ./.  C.  Stead. 


246  JAMES  STEPHENS 


THE  SPRING  IN  IRELAND:    1916 


Do  not  forget  my  charge  I  beg  of  you ; 

That  of  what  flow'rs  you  find  of  fairest  hue 

And  sweetest  odor  you  do  gather  those 

Are  best  of  all  the  best  —  a  fragrant  rose, 

A  tall  calm  lily  from  the  waterside, 

A  half-blown  poppy  leaning  at  the  side 

Its  graceful  head  to  dream  among  the  corn, 

Forget-me-nots  that  seem  as  though  the  morn 

Had  tumbled  down  and  grew  into  the  clay, 

And  hawthorn  buds  that  swing  along  the  way 

Easing  the  hearts  of  those  who  pass  them  by 

Until  they  find  contentment.  —  Do  not  cry, 

But  gather  buds,  and  with  them  greenery 

Of  slender  branches  taken  from  a  tree 

Well    bannered    by    the    spring    that    saw   them 

fall: 
Then  you,  for  you  are  cleverest  of  all 
Who  have  slim  fingers  and  are  pitiful, 
Brimming    your   lap   with    bloom    that    you   may 

cull. 
Will  sit  apart,  and  weave  for  every  head 
A  garland  of  the  flow'rs  you  gathered. 


JAMES  STEPHEXS  247 

II 

Be  green  upon  their  graves,  O  happy  Spring, 

For  they  were  young  and  eager  who  are  dead ; 

Of  all  things  that  are  young  and  quivering 

With  eager  life  be  they  rememl)ered  : 

They  move  not  here,  they  have  gone  to  the  clay, 

They  cannot  die  again  for  liberty ; 

Be  they  remembered  of  their  land  for  aye ; 

Green  be  their  graves  and  green  their  memory. 

Fragrance  and  beauty  come  in  with  the  green, 
The  ragged  bushes  put  on  sweet  attire. 
The  birds  forget  how  chill  these  airs  have  been, 
The  clouds  bloom  out  again  and  move  in  fire ; 
Blue  is  the  dawn  of  day,  calm  is  the  lake. 
And  merry  sounds  are  fitful  in  the  morn ; 
In  covert  deep  the  young  blackbirds  awake, 
They  shake  their  wings  and  sing  upon  the  morn. 

At  springtime  of  the  year  you  came  and  s\\aing 
Green  flags  above  the  newly-greening  earth ; 
Scarce  were  the  leaves  unfolded,  they  were  young. 
Nor  had  outgrown  the  wrinkles  of  their  birth  : 
Comrades  they  thought  you  of  their  pleasant  hour, 
They  had  but  glimpsed  the  sun  when  they  saw  you ; 
They  heard  your  songs  e'er  birds  hud  singing  power. 
And  drank  your  blood  e'er  that  they  drunk  the  dew. 


248  JAMES  STEPHENS 

Then  you  went  down,  and  then,  and  as  in  pain, 
The  Spring  affrighted  fled  her  leafy  ways, 
The  clouds  came  to  the  earth  in  gusty  rain, 
And  no  sun  shone  again  for  many  days : 
And  day  by  day  they  told  that  one  was  dead, 
And  day  by  day  the  season  mourned  for  you, 
Until  that  count  of  woe  was  finished, 
And  Spring  remembered  all  was  yet  to  do. 

She  came  with  mirth  of  wind  and  eager  leaf. 
With  scampering  feet  and  reaching  out  of  wings. 
She    laughed    among    the    boughs    and    banished 

grief, 
And  cared  again  for  all  her  baby  things ; 
Leading  along  the  joy  that  has  to  be. 
Bidding  her  timid  buds  think  on  the  May, 
And  told  that  Summer  comes  with  victory. 
And  told  the  hope  that  is  all  creatures'  stay. 

Go,  Winter,  now  unto  your  own  abode. 
Your  time  is  done,  and  Spring  is  conqueror 
Lift  up  with  all  your  gear  and  take  your  road. 
For  she  is  here  and  brings  the  sun  with  her : 
Now  are  we  resurrected,  now  are  we, 
Who  lay  so  long  beneath  an  icy  hand, 
New-risen  into  life  and  liberty, 
Because  the  Spring  is  come  into  our  land. 


JAMES  STEPHEXS  249 

III 
In  other  lands  thev  mav, 
Witli  public  joy  or  dole  along  the  way, 
With  pomp  and  pageantry  and  loud  lament 
Of  drums  and  trumpets,  and  with  merriment 
Of  grateful  hearts,  lead  into  rest  and  sted 
The  nation's  dead. 

If  we  had  drums  and  trumpets,  if  we  had 

Aught  of  heroic  pitch  or  accent  glad 

To  honor  vou  as  bids  tradition  old, 

With  banners  fiimg  or  draped  in  mournful  fold, 

And  pacing  cortege ;  these  would  we  not  bring 

For  your  last  journeying. 

We  have  no  drums  or  trumpets  ;  naught  have  we 
But  some  green  branches  taken  from  a  tree, 
And  flowers  that  grow  at  large  in  mead  and  vale ; 
Nothing  of  choice  have  we,  or  of  avail 
To  do  vou  honor  as  our  honor  deems, 
And  as  vour  worth  beseems. 

Sleep,  drums  and  trumpets,  yet  a  little  time ; 
All  ends  and  all  begins,  and  there  is  chime 
At  last  where  discord  was,  and  joy  at  last 
Wliere  woe  wept  out  her  eyes :  be  not  downcast. 
Here  is  prosperity  and  goodly  cheer, 
For  life  does  follow  death,  and  death  is  here. 

—  James  Stephens. 


250  ARCHIBALD   T.   STRONG 


AUSTRALIA  TO  ENGLAND 

By  all  the  deeds  to  Thy  dear  glory  done, 
By  all  the  life  blood  spilt  to  serve  Thy  need, 
By  all  the  fettered  lives  Thy  touch  hath  freed. 

By  all  Thy  dream  in  us  anew  begun ; 

By  all  the  guerdon  English  sire  to  son 

Hath  given  of  highest  vision,  kingliest  deed. 
By  all  Thine  agony,  of  God  decreed 

For  trial  and  strength,  our  fate  with  Thine  is  one. 

Still  dwells  Thy  spirit  in  our  hearts  and  lips, 
Honor  and  life  we  hold  from  none  but  Thee, 
And  if  we  live  Thy  pensioners  no  more 

But  seek  a  nation's  might  of  men  and  ships, 
'Tis  but  that  when  the  world  is  black  with  war 
Thy  sons  may  stand  beside  Thee  strong  and  free. 

—  Archibald  T.  Strong. 
August,  1914. 


VISCOUNT  STUART  251 


SAILOR,   WHAT  OF   THE   DEBT  WE   OWE 

YOU? 

Sailor,  what  of  the  debt  we  owe  you  ? 

Day  or  night  is  the  peril  more  ? 
Who  so  dull  that  he  fails  to  know  you, 

Sleepless  guard  of  our  island  shore  ? 

Safe  the  com  to  the  farmyard  taken ; 

Grain  ships  safe  upon  all  the  seas ; 
Homes  in  peace  and  a  faith  unshaken  — 

Sailor,  what  do  we  owe  for  these  ? 

Safe  the  clerk  at  his  desk ;  the  trader 
Counts  unruined  his  honest  gain  ; 

Safe  though  yonder  the  curs't  invader 
Pours  red  death  over  hill  and  plain. 

Sailor,  what  of  the  debt  we  owe  you? 

Now  is  the  hour  at  last  to  pay. 
Now  in  the  stricken  field  to  show  you 

What  is  the  spirit  you  guard  to-day. 

—  Andrew  John  Stuart. 

(Eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of  Castlestewart,  Lieut.  Gth 
Royal  Scots  Fusiliers,  killed  in  action  in  France  between 
Sept.  25  and  27,  1915.) 


252  ELIZABETH   TOWNSEND  SWIFT 


FROM  AMERICA 

Oh,  England,  at  the  smoking  trenches  dying 

For  all  the  world, 
Our  hearts  beat  and  we  watch  your  bright  flag  flying 

While  ours  is  furled ; 

We  who  are  neutral  (yet  each  lip  with  fervor 

The  word  abjures) : 
Oh,  England,  never  name  us  the  time-server  I 

Our  hearts  are  yours : 

We  that  so  glory  in  your  high  decision, 

So  trust  your  goal ; 
All  Europe  in  our  blood,  but  yours  our  vision, 

Our  speech,  our  soul ! 

—  Elizabeth  Townsend  Swift. 


RABIXDRAXATH    TAGORE  253 


THE  TRUMPET 

Thy  trumpet  lies  in  the  dust. 

The  wind  is  weary,  the  light  is  dead.     Ah,  the  evil 

day ! 
Come  fighters,  carrying  your  flags  and  singers  with 

your  songs ! 
Come  pilgrims,  hurrying  on  your  journey  ! 
The  trumpet  lies  in  the  dust  waiting  for  us. 

I  was  on  my  way  to  the  temple  with   my  evening 

offerings, 
Seeking  for  the  heaven  of  rest  after  the  day's  dusty 

toil; 
Hoping  my  hurts  would  be  healed  and  stains  in  my 

garments  washed  white, 
When  I  found  thy  trumpet  lying  in  the  dust. 

Has  it  not  been  the  time  for  me  to  light  my  lamp? 

Has  my  evening  not  come  to  bring  me  sleep  ? 

O,   thou   blood-rod    rose,   where   have   my  poppies 

faded  y 
I  was  certain  my  wanderings  were  over  and  my  debts 

all  paid 
When  suddenly  I  came  upon  thy  trumpet  lying  in  the 

dust. 


254  RABIN DRANATH   TAGORE 

Strike  my  drowsy  heart  with  thy  spell  of  youth ! 

Let  my  joy  in  life  blaze  up  in  fire. 

Let  the  shafts  of  awakening  fly  piercing  the  heart  of 

night  and  a  thrill  of  dread  shake  the  palsied 

blindness, 
I  have  come  to  raise  thy  trumpet  from  the  dust. 

Sleep  is  no  more  for  me  —  my  walk  shall  be  through 

showers  of  arrows. 
Some  shall  run  out  of  their  houses  and  come  to  my 

side  —  some  shall  weep. 
Some  in  their  beds  shall  toss  and  groan  in  dire  dreams : 
For  to-night  thy  trumpet  shall  be  sounded. 

From  thee  I  had  asked  peace  only  to  find  shame. 
Now  I  stand  before  thee  —  help  me  to  don  my 

armor ! 
Let  hard  blows  of  trouble  strike  fire  into  my  life. 
Let  my  heart  beat  in  pain  —  beating  the  drum  of  thy 

victory. 
My  hands  shall  be  utterly  emptied  to  take  up  thy 

trumpet. 

—  Rahindranath  Tagore. 


FRAXK   TAYLOR  255 


ENGLAND'S  DEAD 

("  Make  them  to  be  numbered  with  thy  Saints :  in  glory 

everlasting.") 

Homeward  the  long  ships  leap ;  swift-shod  witli  joy, 
Striding  the  deep  sea-dykes  fast  home  they  fare,  — 

Where  is  my  wedded  love  ?     Where  is  m^•  bov  ? 
Where  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  where? 

Homeward  the  long  ships  leap  ;  but  not  with  these 
Thy  boy,  thy  wedded  love,  O  gentle-eyed 

Woman  of  England,  nor  far  over  seas 

Mixing  with  dull  earth  sleep  the  dead  that  died 

For  England.     They,  in  God's  completed  aims, 
Bear  each  his  part ;  unseen  of  bounded  sight, 

Down  the  vast  firmament  there  floats  and  flames, 
Crested  with  stars  and  panoplied  in  light, 

Of  strenuous  clean  souls  a  long  array. 

With  lambent  lance  and  white,  bright,  blinding 
sword, 
All  riding  upon  horses,  —  what  are  they? 

They  are  the  dead  which  died  in  Christ  their  Lord 

For  England,  from  old  time;  with  God  made  one, 
As  on  the  mount  the  tri{)le  vision  shone, 


256  FRANK   TAYLOR 

So  shine  they  now,  and  like  the  noontide  sun 
Before  them  all  the  fair  Saint  George  rides  on. 

There  goes  the  boy  of  Cre^y  whispering  low 

To  him  of  Agincourt,  a  kingly  pair, 
With  many  mighty  men  which  bent  the  bow,  — 

There  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  there ; 

There  go  those  quenchless  Talbots,  there  the  flower 
Of  Devon,  Grenville,  Gilbert,  mariners  rare. 

She  too  who  thought  foul  scorn  of  Philip's  power,  — 
There  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  there ; 

And  Sidney  who  the  rippling  cup  resigned, 

And  happy  Wolfe ;  wan  Pitt  released  from  care, 

Nelson  the  well-beloved  and  all  his  kind,  — 
There  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  there ; 

And  he  who  brake  the  Corsican's  strong  spell, 
And  Nicholson,  impatient  of  despair. 

And  Gordon,  faithful,  desolate  sentinel,  — 

There  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  there ; 

And  there  unhelmeted,  ungirt  of  brand, 
Victoria  moves  with  mild,  maternal  air, 

Still  vigilant,  still  prayerful  for  the  land,  — 

There  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  there. 

Nor  ride  they  idly  nor  with  indolent  rein. 
Irresolute,  as  men  that  seek  no  foe, 


FRANK   TAYLOR  257 


But  by  the  pathless  sea,  by  peak  and  plain, 

Bright-eyed,  stern-lipped,  all  day,  all  night,  they  go 

Forth  as  a  fire  that  snatches  and  devours 

Wind-withered  woods,  so  go  they  swift  and  fell, 

Warring  with  principalities  and  powers. 

Hunting  through  space  the  swart,  old  bands  of 
Hell ; 

And  all  the  sounding  causeways  of  the  spheres 
Ring  like  white  iron  with  the  rhythmic  tread 

Of  these  and  their  innumerable  peers ; 

But  most  round  England  muster  England's  dead, 

Round  England  cradled  in  her  roaring  seas. 

With  Arctic  snows  white-girdled,  bathed  in  suns 

Asian  and  Australasian,  there  go  these ; 
And  where  one  solitary  trader  nms 

His  English  keel,  and  where  one  lonely  sword 
Glimmers  for  England,  one  unsleeping  brain 

Watches  and  works  for  England,  thitherward 
Gather  the  bright  souls  of  her  servants  slain 

For  her,  and  lock  their  shimmering  ranks,  and  sweep 
Round   England's   child   as  sweeps  the  northern 
gale 

Round  some  stark  pine-tree  on  the  moorland  steep, 
And  from  the  flash  and  rattle  of  their  mail 


258  FRANK   TAYLOR 

Hell's  pale  marauders  shudderingly  recoil 
Frustrate.     O  glad  condition  and  sublime 

Of  our  undying  dead,  to  fight  and  foil 
The  ancient  foe,  continually  to  climb 

Through  God's  high  order  of  His  Saints,  to  meet 
Some  soul  whose  star-like  name  lit  all  their  course, 

And  commune  with  him,  to  discern  and  greet 

Old  kindred,  love,  and  friendship,  hound  and  horse ; 

To  see  God  face  to  face,  and  still  to  see 

And  labor  for  the  loves  that  grope  on  earth, 

To  wait  serenely  till  all  souls  shall  be 
One  in  God's  aristocracy  of  worth,  — 

O  glad  condition  and  sublime !  whereto 

That  southern  tomb  thy  hands  may  never  tend 

Was  but  the  gateway  thy  loved  boy  passed  through, 
Thy  wedded  love  passed  through,  that  he  might 
wend 

Homeward  to  thee ;  thou  can'st  not  see  the  blaze 
Of  his  great  blade  nor  hear  his  trumpets  blare, 

Yet  thick  as  brown  leaves  round  about  thy  ways, 

There  go  the  dead  that  died  for  England,  there. 

—  Frank  Taylor. 

(This  poem  was  written  about  1902,  and  was  published 
in  the  Spectator  of  June  12,  1915,  having  been  found  among 
the  author's  papers  by  his  executor,  by  whose  consent  it  is 
here  reprinted.) 


SARA    TEAS DALE  259 


SPRING  IX  WAR  TIME 

I  FEEL  the  Spring  far  off,  far  off, 

The  faint  far  scent  of  bud  and  leaf  — 

Oh  how  can  Spring  take  heart  to  come 
To  a  world  in  grief, 
Deep  grief  ? 

The  sun  turns  north,  the  days  grow  long, 
Later  the  evening  star  grows  bright  — 

How  can  the  daylight  linger  on 
For  men  to  fight, 

Still  fight? 

The  grass  is  waking  in  the  ground, 
Soon  it  will  rise  and  blow  in  waves  — 

How  can  it  have  the  heart  to  sway 
Over  the  graves. 
New  graves  ? 

Under  the  boughs  where  lovers  walked 

The  apple-l)looms  will  shed  their  breath  — 
But  what  of  all  the  lovers  now 
Parted  by  death. 
Gray  Death? 

—  Sara  Tcasdale. 


260  EDITH  M.    THOMAS 


SAID   ATTILA   THE   HUN   TO  — 

It  was  not  here  —  it  was  not  there, 
It  was  not  now  —  it  was  not  then  .  .  . 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  Otherwhere, 
Two  tjTant  lords  of  vanished  men  — 
They  meet  in  shadowy  mail  and  casque, 
They  greet,  and  of  each  other  ask. 

(Two  shades  whose  work  on  earth  was  dire, 
Mid  darted  lights  and  whelming  gloom, 
Their  eyes  the  lamps  of  lethal  fire, 
Fierce  thirst  for  power  their  endless  doom  — 
To  seek,  to  be  thrown  hack,  to  seek  !  .  .  . 
To  learn  the  triumph  of  the  weak  !) 

"Lo,  I  am  Attila,  who  laid 

Proud  Aquileia  in  the  dust ; 

The  Slav,  the  Teuton,  slaked  my  blade  — 

Of  blood  I  had  the  sacred  lust ! 

Yea,  Attila  am  I ;  but  thou. 

Who  has  our  brand  upon  thy  brow !" 

"  I,  too,  made  treasure-cities  smoke, 
And  blood  with  ashes  mixed  therein ; 


EDITH   M.    THOMAS  261 

And  from  the  sky,  on  sleeping  folk, 
Mine  engines  did  fnll  vengeance  win  !" 
To  whom  said  Attila  the  Hun, 
"In  all  of  this  thou  hast  well  done !" 

"But  I,"  the  other  shade  replies, 
"  Where'er  I  dealt  the  killing  blow. 
Or  gave  mine  iron  cross  as  prize, 
Therewith  I  bade  God's  blessing  go  .  .  ." 
.  .  .  Then,  Attila  fell  back,  outdone  — 
God's  scourge,  and  not  His  favored  son  ! 

—  Edith  M.  Thomas. 


262  GILBERT   THOMAS 


THE  UNXONQUERED  HOPE 

(A  ship  recently  arrived  in  England  from  America,  laden 
with  toys,  the  gift  of  the  American  people,  for  the  children 
both  of  the  AlUes  and  the  Enemy.) 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  clouds  of  death  and  doom 

Veil  the  sun's  soft  and  kindly  beam ;  — 
Yet,  can  ye  see  one  light  agleam 
Where  a  stately  ship  comes  threading 
Its  pathway  thro'  the  gloom  ? 

Say  ye  'tis  but  a  ship  of  steel  ? 
Are  ye  so  dead,  so  blind  ! 

Can  ye  not  see  the  rainbow  spray 
That  dances  on  the  good  ship's  way. 
Nor  hear  the  strange,  deep  whispers 
That  wander  on  the  wind  ? 

What  are  the  gifts  the  proud  ship  brings 
To  the  weary  world  and  old  ? 
Trifles  to  fill  a  childish  hand  ? 
Why,  hardly  the  angels  understand 
The  richness  of  the  treasure 
That  lies  within  its  hold  ! 


GILBERT   THOMAS  263 

Oh,  breaking  thro'  the  mist  of  dreams 
That  wreathe  the  distant  bar, 

The  vessel  comes  with  a  strange  Hght  dress'd, 
And,  tho'  it  sails  from  out  the  West, 
Upon  its  flag  there  ghstens 
A  golden  Eastern  star ! 

For  when  the  world  is  blackest. 
And  man  is  blind  with  blood 

And  buried  deep  in  his  guilt  and  pride, 
This  is  the  ship  that  takes  the  tide 
And  sends  its  lamp  of  healing 
Across  the  soul's  dark  flood. 

It  comes  once  more  as  it  oft  has  come,' 
With  its  faery  wings  outspread  — 
Can  ye  not  see  them,  eyes  that  grope, 
Nor  read  its  name.  The  Unconquered  Hope, 
Nor  yet  discern  the  halo 
Around  its  Figurehead  ? 

WTiat  are  the  gifts  the  proud  ship  brings? 
Oh  childish  smiles  and  tears ; 

Oh  childish  faith  that  breaks  thro'  all 
The  sin  that  holds  the  world  in  thrall !  .  .  . 
A  rift  is  in  the  darkness  — 
A  ship,  a  ship  appears. 

—  Gilbert  Thomas. 


264  GRACE  E.    TOLLEMACHE 


SONNET 

October  1st,  1914 

England  !  that  thou  wast  faint  of  heart  we  said, 
Or  inly  thought ;   and  that  the  wreath  of  bays 
Drooped   on   thy   brow,   withered   with   length   of 

days, 
A  dust-layered  trophy  of  the  age-long  Dead  : 
We  wronged   thee   much !  —  Myriads   this   month 

have  bled 
And  died  for  thee,  and  though  the  end  delays, 
There's  not  one  that  a  daunted  spirit  betrays 
Nor  that  for  thee  life's  last  drop  would  not  shed ! 

We  deemed  thy  robes  grown  faded,  —  but  fresh- 
dyed 
We  now  behold  them,  —  and  their  crimson  dye 
Is  of  thy  sons'  spilt  blood,  deep-hued  and  glowing : 
O  England  !  thou  art  comely  in  thy  pride 
And  clad  in  glorious  raiment,  and  thy  going 
Is  as  of  one  who  goes  to  victory  ! 

—  Grace  E.  Tollemache. 


CHARLES  HAXSOX   TOWNE  265 


TO  :\IY   COUNTRY 

OxE  told  me  he  had  heard  it  whispered  :   "Lo  I 
The  hour  has  come  when  Europe,  desperate 
With  sudden  war  and  terrible  swift  hate, 

Rocks  like  a  reed  beneath  the  mighty  blow. 

Therefore  shall  we,  in  this  her  time  of  woe, 
Profit  and  prosper,  since  her  ships  of  state 
Go  down  in  darkness.     Kind,  thrice  kind  is  Fate, 

Leaving  our  land  secure,  our  grain  to  grow !" 

America  !     They  blaspheme  and  they  lie 
Who  sa\'  these  are  the  voices  of  your  sons ! 

In  this  foul  night,  when  nations  sink  and  die, 
No  thought  is  here  save  for  the  fallen  ones 
Who,  underneath  the  ruin  of  old  thrones. 

Suffer  and  bleed,  and  tell  the  world  good-by  ! 

—  Charles  Hanson  Towne. 


266  D.   HOWARD   TRIPP 


AFTERMATH 

With  steady,  silent  tread 
Bearing  aloft  their  dead  — 
One  at  the  foot,  one  at  the  head 
The  stretcher-bearers  go ; 
Out  of  the  dark  they  come 
Stumbling  and  staggering,  some 
Bearing,  maybe,  a  chum, 
Pair  after  pair  they  go. 

Vague,  silhouetted  ghosts, 

Remnants  of  martyr'd  hosts ; 

Think  on  the  blatant  toasts 

Raised  to  "King  Glory"! 

Tread  lightly,  that's  the  way, 

Wake  not  the  dead,  lest  they 

Have  other  words  to  say 

Of  the  same  story  ! 

—  D.  Howard  Tripp. 

(Lance-Corporal,  London  Irish  Rifles,  British  Expedi- 
tionary Force.) 


KATHARINE   TYNAN  267 


A  GIRL'S  SONG 

TiiE  Mouse  and  Marne  have  little  waves ; 

The  slender  poplars  o'er  them  lean. 
One  day  they  will  forget  the  graves 

That  give  the  grass  its  living  green. 

Some  brown  French  girl  the  rose  will  wear 
That  springs  above  his  comely  head ; 

Will  twine  it  in  her  russet  hair, 
Nor  wonder  why  it  is  so  red. 

His  blood  is  in  the  rose's  veins, 
His  hair  is  in  the  yellow  corn. 

My  grief  is  in  the  weeping  rains 
And  in  the  keening  wind  forlorn. 

Flow  softly,  softly,  ]\Iarne  and  Meuse ; 

Tread  lightly  all  ye  browsing  sheep ; 
Fall  tenderly,  O  silver  dews, 

For  here  my  dear  Love  lies  asleep. 

The  earth  is  on  his  sealed  eyes, 

The  beauty  marred  that  was  my  pride ; 
Would  I  were  lying  where  he  lies, 

And  sleeping  sweetly  by  his  side  ! 


268  KATHARINE   TYNAN 

The  Spring  will  come  by  Meuse  and  Marne, 
The  birds  be  blithesome  in  the  tree. 

I  heap  the  stones  to  make  his  cairn 
Where  many  sleep  as  sound  as  he. 

—  Katharine  Tynan. 


LOUIS    UNTERMEYER  269 


THE  LAUGHERS 

Spring  ! 

And  her  hidden  bugles  up  the  street. 

Spring  —  and  the  sweet 

Laughter  of  winds  at  the  crossing ; 

Laughter  of  birds  and  a  fountain  tossing 

Its  hair  in  abandoned  ecstasies. 

Laughter  of  trees. 

Laughter  of  shop-girls  that  giggle  and  blush ; 

Laugh  of  the  tug-boat's  impertinent  fife. 

Laughter  followed  by  a  trembling  hush  — 

Laughter  of  love,  scarce  whispered  aloud. 

Then,  stilled  by  no  sacredness  or  strife, 

Laughter  that  leaps  from  the  crowd ; 

Seizing  the  world  in  a  rush. 

Laughter  of  life.  .  .  . 

Earth  takes  deep  breaths  like  a  man  who  had  feared 

he  might  smother. 
Filling  his  lungs  before  bursting  into  a  shout.  .  .  . 
Windows  are  opened  —  curtains  flying  out ; 
Over  the  wash-lines  women  call  to  each  other. 
And,  under  the  calling,  there  surges,  too  clearly  to 

doubt, 


270  LOUIS    UNTEEMEYER 

Spring,  with  the  noises 

Of  shrill,  little  voices ; 

Joining  in  "Tag"  and  the  furious  chase 

Of  "I-spy,"  "Red  Rover"  and  "Prisoner's  Base"; 

Of  the  roller-skates  whir  at  the  sidewalk's  slope, 

Of  boys  playing  marbles  and  girls  skipping  rope. 

And  there,  down  the  avenue,  behold, 

The  first  true  herald  of  the  Spring  — 

The  hand-organ  gasping  and  wheezily  murmuring 

Its  tunes  ten-years  old.  .  .  . 

And  the  music,  trivial  and  tawdry,  has  freshness 

and  magical  swing. 
And  over  and  under  it, 
During  and  after  — 
The  laughter 
Of  Spring  !  .  .  . 

And  lifted  still 

With  the  common  thrill, 

With  the  throbbing  air,  the  tingling  vapor, 

That  rose  like  strong  and  mingled  wines ; 

I  turned  to  my  paper. 

And  read  these  lines  : 

"  Now  that  the  Spring  is  here, 

The  war  enters  its  bloodiest  phase  .  .  . 

The  men  are  impatient.  ... 

Bad  roads,  storms  and  the  rigors  of  the  winter 

Have  held  back  the  contending  armies.  .  .  . 


LOUIS    UNTERMEYER  271 


But  the  recruits  have  arrived, 

And  are  waitifig  only  the  first  days  of  icarm  weather.  .  .  . 

There    will    be    terrible    fighting    along    the     whole 

line  — 
Now  that  Spring  has  come." 

I  put  the  paper  down  .  .  , 

Something  struck  out  the  sun  —  something  unseen ; 

Something  arose  like  a  dark  wave  to  drown 

The  goklen  streets  with  a  sickly  green. 

Something  polluted  the  blossoming  day 

With  the  touch  of  decay. 

The  music  thinned  and  died ; 

People  seemed  hollow-eyed. 

Even  the  faces  of  children,  where  gaiety  lingers, 

Sagged  and  drooped  like  banners  about  to  be  furled — 

And  Silence  laid  its  bony  fingers 

On  the  lips  of  the  world  .  .  . 

A  grisly  quiet  with  the  power  to  choke ; 

A  quiet  that  only  one  thing  broke ; 

One  thing  alone  rose  up  thereafter  ... 

Laughter ! 

Laughter  of  streams  running  red. 

Laughter  of  evil  things  in  the  night ; 

Vultures  carousing  over  the  dead  ; 

Laughter  of  ghouls. 

Chuckling  of  irliots,  cursed  with  sight. 

Laughter  of  dark  and  horrible  pools. 


272  LOUIS    UNTERMEYER 

Scream  of  the  bullets'  rattling  mirth. 

Sweeping  the  earth. 

Laugh  of  the  cannon's  poisonous  breath.  .  .  . 

And  over  the  shouts  and  the  wreckage  and  crumbling 

The  raucous  and  rumbling 

Laughter  of  death. 

Death  that  arises  to  sing,  — 

Hailing  the  Spring ! 

—  Louis  Untermeyer. 


MARIE   VAN   VORST  273 


THE   .AJMERICAX  VOLUNTEERS 

NErTRAL !  America,  you  cannot  give 

To  your  sons'  souls  neutrality.     Your  powers 

Are  sovereign,  [Mother,  but  past  histories  live 
In  hearts  as  young  as  ours. 

We  who  are  free  disdain  oppression,  lust 
And  infamous  raid.     We  have  been  pioneers 

For  freedom  and  our  code  of  honor  must 
Drj'  and  not  startle  tears. 

We've  read  of  Lafayette,  who  came  to  give 

His  youth,  with  his  companions  and  their  powers, 

To  help  the  Colonies  —  and  heroes  live 
In  hearts  as  young  as  ours ! 

Neutral !    We  who  go  forth  with  sword  and  lance, 
A  little  band  to  swell  the  battle's  flow. 

Go  willingly,  to  pay  again  to  France 
Some  of  the  debt  we  owe, 

—  Marie  Van  Vorst. 


274  ALBERTA    VICKRIDGE 


THE  CONSCRIPT 

Then  former  stars  were  faint  and  signs  were  fled. 
Dawn  flamed  and  sleepers  roused  :  you  saw  men's 

souls 
Crowned  of  that  fire  with  terrible  aureoles. 
You  saw  —  and  hid  your  head,  and  hid  your  head. 
What  of  you,  O  unwilling,  shall  be  said  ? 
England,  Beloved, 
Say  that  Pain  crowned  even  mine  with  all  men's 
souls. 

Joyous  as  guest  unto  the  rose-heaped  board, 
Dreamful  as  lover  to  his  dreams'  desire, 
Steadfast  as  martyr  to  the  pitiless  fire. 
My  sons,  yet  not  to  any  task  abhorred, 
But  to  love's  service,  went  with  one  accord. 
No  less,  Beloved, 
My  heart  perforce  shall  kindle  at  thy  fire. 

Toiled  in  my  vineyard  since  the  early  sun. 

Toiled  through  the  drouth,  the  ardent  heat  of 

noon, 
These,  my  true  laborers.     Say,   who  earns  my 

boon. 


ALBERTA    VICKRIDGE  275 

My  honorable  wage,  my  deep  Well-done, 
He  that  shall  come  at  rise  or  set  of  sun  ? 
Even  he,  Beloved, 
Ulio  serves  ihee  there,  whether  at  eve  or  noon. 

The  marriage-feast  was  spread  within  my  house. 
Red  flowed  the  wine,  loud  rose  the  eager  din. 
Prepared  for  honored  guests,  the  fare  therein 

Now  bids  another  company  carouse. 

O  heedless,  find  you  welcome  in  my  house  ? 
Even  I,  Beloved, 
Compelled  jr 0111  hedge  and  highicay  to  come  in. 

Renownless  Christs  of  a  new  Calvary, 

My  children  died,  love's  dearest  debt  to  pay. 
Thief,  who  have  filched  your  peace  in  vain,  to-day 
Beside  that  ransoming  love  unforced  and  free. 
Perish  you  not  on  a  most  shameful  tree  ? 
Not  so,  Beloved, 
For  I  shall  meet  thy  Dead  in  heaven  to-day. 

—  Alberta  Vickridge. 


276  A.   STODART   WALKER 


IN  A  SLUM 

I  NEVER  heard  him  speak  a  kindly  word, 
My  tears  were  answered  with  a  savage  oath, 

He  drank  what  we  could  very  ill  afford, 
He  was  a  bully  and  a  drunkard  both. 

He  broke  my  body  as  he  broke  my  soul, 
I  shivered  when  I  heard  his  stumbling  feet ; 

At  times  the  very  household  "sticks"  he  stole, 
To  pawn  and  pay  for  women  in  the  street. 

I  stitched  and  labored  for  his  children's  bread, 
Fourpence  a  shirt  the  sweated  wage  I  earned. 

Save  when  the  doctor  forced  me  to  my  bed, 
Where  thrice  a  mother's  travail  I  had  learned. 

The  day  he  left  me  for  the  barrack  square, 
He  swore  we  women  were  no  earthly  use 

For  anything  but  filling  men  with  care, 

His  parting  words  were  words  of  foul  abuse. 

And  now  they  tell  me  of  a  hero's  death, 

How  one  to  twelve  he  held  the  Huns  at  bay, 

And  won  the  Cross,  yet  with  his  passing  breath 
He  bade  the  chaplain  "take  his  face  away." 


.4.    STODART   WALKER  277 

Inside  the  pubs  the  neighbors  speak  his  praise, 
The  man  who  brought  the  world  about  our  slum, 

Or  by  the  open  door  they  stand  and  gaze, 
And  wonder  why  his  slattern  wife  is  dumb. 

The  preacher  dwells  the  ways  of  God  upon, 
Surpassing  man's  design  and  woman's  wit ; 

Oh  God,  I  can't  be  sorry  he  is  gone, 
But  going  I  am  glad  he  did  his  bit. 

—  A.  Stodart  Walker. 


278  SIR  HERBERT   WARREN 


ENGLAND  TO  DENMARK 

August,  1915 

Great  little  land,  old  comrades  of  the  sea, 
Salt  of  its  salt,  whelps  of  its  Viking  brood. 
Sharers  with  us  in  its  free  fearless  mood. 

Narrow  your  home,  world-wide  your  chivalry  ! 

Now  call  we  kin  for  the  past  and  the  years  to  be. 
Now  is  the  name  of  righteous  Cnut  renewed, 
Forgiven  and  forgot  all  days  of  feud. 

In  your  sure  aid  and  swift  sweet  sympathy. 

Your  forbears  ruled  us  with  the  wise  King's  yoke. 

Your  Princess  binds  us  with  her  Queenly  grace. 

To-day  your  strong  sons  all  our  hearts  constrain, 

Who  could  not  brook  a  foul  and  dastard  stroke, 

But  swept  between,  and  rather  death  would  face. 

Than  that  sea-murder  Danish    waves  should 

stain. 

—  Herbert  Warren. 


ALBERT   D.    WATSON  279 


MOTHER  OF  NATIONS 
WHY? 

Does  the  Mother  of  Nations  draw  the  sword 
To  rescue  her  children  oppressed  ? 

Thev  have  all  that  the  richest  lands  afford  ; 

They  sit  content  at  an  ample  board 
As  safe  as  a  bird  in  its  nest. 

Has  she  laid  her  spear  on  the  shield  of  Mars 

New  lands  in  the  wars  to  gain  ? 
Her  dominions  extend  wherever  the  stars 
Are  blushing  with  shame  for  our  foolish  wars ; 

Her  ships  are  on  every  main. 

And  not  that  the  world  may  acclaim  her  grand 

Is  the  roar  of  her  guns  on  the  seas ; 
Her  name  is  lustred  on  every  strand, 
Her  glory  is  known  to  the  farthest  land 
Where  her  standard  floats  on  the  breeze. 

Ah  this  is  the  pillar  of  cloud  and  fire 

That  leads  her  hosts  along ; 
This,  this  is  the  goal  of  their  deep  desire, 
The  road  where  their  feet  shall  never  tire,  — 

To  be  just,  keep  faith  and  be  strong. 


280 


ALBERT  D.    WATSON 


So  the  Mother  of  Nations  has  risen  in  might 

At  the  word  of  the  onward  call ; 
She  has  shaken  her  banners  forth  to  the  light, 
And  marched  to  the  front  of  the  people's  fight 

Like  the  van  of  a  tidal  wall. 


And  the  future  shall  say  of  her  sons  who  died 

Wherever  their  feet  have  trod 
With  millions  of  comrades  in  arms  allied ; 
"They  cast  the  treasures  of  earth  aside 

And  marched  to  the  goals  of  God," 

—  Albert  D.  Watson. 
Toronto. 


WILLIAM   WATSON  281 


OUR   ]\IEN 

Our  men,  they  are  our  stronghold. 

Our  bastioned  wall  unsealed, 
\Mio,  against  Hate  and  Wrong,  hold 

This  Realm  that  never  quailed ; 
WTio  bear  the  noblest  burden 

Life  lays  on  shoulders  broad. 
Asking  not  fame  or  guerdon, 

Asking  not  gold  or  laud. 

They  go  where  England  speeds  them ; 

They  laugh  and  jest  at  Fate. 
They  go  where  England  needs  them 

And  dream  not  they  are  great, 
And  oft,  'mid  smoke  and  smother 

By  blinding  warstorm  fanned 
Sons  of  our  mighty  Mother, 

They  fall  that  she  may  stand. 

Our  sailors,  save  when  sleeping 

The  light  sleep  of  the  sea. 
Their  ancient  watch  are  keeping. 

Mother,  for  thine  and  thee  1 


282  WILLIAM  WATSON 

They  guard  thy  maiden  daughters 
From  worse  than  death  or  pain ; 

The  men  who  ward  the  waters. 
The  men  who  man  the  main. 

When  navies  meet  and  wrestle, 

And  their  vast  arms  strike  home  — 
Vessel  with  monstrous  vessel 

Matched  on  the  flame-lit  foam  — 
What  fleet  returns  in  glory  ? 

What  fleet  makes  haste  to  fly  ? 
O  Sea,  that  knowest  our  story. 

Thou,  thou  canst  best  reply ! 

Then  hail  to  all  who  gave  us 

Their  might  of  arm  and  soul, 
Hot  and  athirst  to  save  us. 

To  heal,  and  keep  us  whole ; 
Whether  they  serve  where  yonder 

Far-burrowing  trenches  run. 
Or  where  the  ocean  thunder 

Peals  with  the  thundering  gun. 

—  William  Watson. 


THE   REV.   LAUCHLAN   MACLEAN    WATT     283 


THE   REAPERS 

Red  are  the  hands  of  the  Reapers, 

And  the  harvest  is  so  white ! 
Red  are  the  feet  that  are  treading 

The  threshing  floors  by  night : 
And,  on  the  young  brows,  dripping 

As  with  the  dews  of  morn. 
Deep  rose-red  are  the  woundings. 

Like  scars  of  a  crown  of  thorn. 

Tired,  so  many,  with  reaping,  — 

Tired  with  treading  the  grain. 
Still  they  lie,  in  their  sleeping. 

Low  in  the  Valley  of  Pain,  — 
Never  again  to  be  quaflSng 

The  joy  of  life,  like  wine ; 
Never  again  to  be  laughing 

In  Youth's  glad  hour  divine. 

Birds  shall  sing  in  the  branches. 
Children  dance  by  the  shore ; 

But  they  who  shared  the  red  reaping 
Shall  come  back  never  more. 


284     THE  REV.   LAUCHLAN   MACLEAN   WATT 

Let  whoso  can  forget  them, 

Walking  Hfe's  noisy  ways ; 
We  who  have  looked  on  the  Reapers 
Go  quietly,  all  our  days. 

—  Lauchlan  Maclean  Watt. 
France,  1916.  (Chaplain  of  the  Force.) 


EDITH   WHARTON  285 


BELGIUM 

La  Belgique  ne  rcgrctte  rien. 

Not  with  her  ruined  silver  spires, 
Not  with  her  cities  shamed  and  rent, 
Perish  the  imperishable  fires 
That  shape  the  homestead  from  the  tent. 

Wherever  men  are  staunch  and  free. 
There  shall  she  keep  her  fearless  state, 
And,  homeless,  to  great  nations  be 
The  home  of  all  that  makes  them  great. 

—  Edith  Wharton. 


286  MARGARET   WIDDEMER 


THE  WAKENED  GOD 

The  War-god  wakened  drowsily ; 

There  were  gold  chains  about  his  hands. 

He  said  :   "  And  who  shall  reap  my  lands 
And  bear  the  tithes  to  Death  for  me  ? 

"The  nations  stilled  my  thunderings; 
They  wearied  of  my  steel  despair, 
The  flames  from  out  my  burning  hair : 

Is  there  an  ending  of  such  things?" 

Low  laughed  the  Earth,  and  answered  :  "When 
Was  any  changeless  law  I  gave 
Changed  by  my  sons  intent  to  save, 

By  puny  pitying  hands  of  men  ? 

"I  feel  no  ruth  for  some  I  bear.  .  .  . 
The  swarming,  hungering  overflow 
Of  crowded  millions,  doomed  to  go. 

They  must  destroy  who  chained  you  there. 

"For  some  bright  stone  or  shining  praise 
They  stint  a  million  bodies'  breath. 
And  sell  the  women,  shamed,  to  death. 

And  send  the  men  brief  length  of  days. 


MARGARET   WIDDEMER  287 

"They  kill  the  bodies  swift  for  me, 
And  kill  the  souls  you  gave  to  peace.  .  .  . 
You  were  more  merciful  than  these, 

Old  master  of  my  cruelty. 

"Lo,  souls  are  scarred  and  virtues  dim  : 
Take  back  thy  scourge  of  ministry. 
Rise  from  thy  silence  suddenly. 

Lest  these  still  take  Death's  toll  to  him  !" 

The  War-God  snapped  his  golden  chain  : 
His  mercies  thundered  down  the  world. 
And  lashing  battle-lines  uncurled 

And  scourged  the  crouching  lands  again. 

—  Margaret  Widdemer. 


288  lOLO  ANEURIN   WILLIAMS 


FROM  A  FLEMISH  GRAVEYARD 
(January,  1915) 

A  YEAR  hence  may  the  grass  that  waves 
O'er  English  men  in  Flemish  graves, 
Coating  this  clay  with  green  of  peace 
And  softness  of  a  vear's  increase, 
Be  kind  and  lithe  as  English  grass 
To  bend  and  nod  as  the  winds  pass ; 
It  was  for  grass  on  English  hills 
These  bore  too  soon  the  last  of  ills. 


And  may  the  wind  be  brisk  and  clean, 
And  singing  cheerfully  between 
The  bents  a  pleasant-burdened  song 
To  cheer  these  English  dead  along ; 
For  English  songs  and  English  winds 
Are  they  that  bred  these  English  minds. 


And  may  the  circumstantial  trees 
Dip,  for  these  dead  ones,  in  the  breeze. 
And  make  for  them  their  silver  play 
Of  spangled  boughs  each  shiny  day. 


lOLO  ANEURIN   WILLIAMS  289 


Thus  may  these  look  above,  and  see 
And  hear  the  wind  in  grass  and  tree, 
And  watch  a  lark  in  heaven  stand, 
And  think  themselves  in  their  own  land. 

—  lolo  Aneurin  Williams. 


290  MARGARET  L.    WOODS 


THE   FIRST  BATTLE  OF  YPRESi 

Grey  field  of  Flanders,  grim  old  battle-plain, 
What  armies  held  the  iron  line  round  Ypres  in  the  rain, 
From  Bixschoote  to  Baecelaere  and  down  to  the 
Lys  river  ? 

Merry  men  of  England, 

Men  of  the  green  shires, 

From  the  winding  waters, 

The  elm-trees  and  the  spires. 
And  the  lone  village  dreaming  in  the  downland  yonder. 
Half  a  million  Huns  broke  over  them  in  thunder. 
Roaring  seas  of  Huns  swept  on  and  sunk  again, 

1  Author's  Note.  —  In  the  first  Battle  of  Ypres, 
which  was  fought  in  October-November,  1914,  a  thin 
line  of  British,  supported  on  each  wing  by  small  bodies 
of  French,  stopped  the  push  of  an  immense  German  army 
on  Calais.  The  allusion  in  the  latter  part  of  the  poem  is 
not  to  "the  angels  of  Mons,"  but  to  a  story  received  from 
a  very  competent  witness.  On  three  occasions  the  Ger- 
mans broke  through  our  line,  then  paused  and  retired, 
for  no  apparent  reason.  On  each  of  these  occasions  prison- 
ers, when  asked  the  cause  of  their  retirement,  repUed : 
"We  saw  your  enormous  Reserves."  We  had  no  Reserves. 
This  story  was  incidentally  confirmed  by  the  remark  of 
another  officer  on  the  curious  conduct  of  the  Germans  in 
violently  shelling  certain  empty  fields  behind  our  lines. 


MARGARET   L.    WOODS  291 

Where  fought  the  men  of  England  round  Ypres  in 

the  rain, 
On  the  grim  phiin  of  Flanders,  whose  earth  is  fed 

with  slaughter. 

North-country  fighting  men  from  the  mine  and  the 

loom, 
Highlander  and  lowlander  stood  up  to  death  and 

doom. 
From  Bixschoote  to  Baecelaere  and  down  to  the 

Lys  river. 

London  men  and  Irish, 
Indian  men  and  French, 
Charging  with  the  bayonet, 
Firing  in  the  trench, 
Fought  in  that  furious  fight,  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
Leapt  from  their  saddles  to  charge  in  fierce  disorder, 
The  Life  Guards,  mud  and  blood  for  the  scarlet 

and  the  plume, 
And  they  hurled  back  the  foemen  as  the  wind  the 

sea  spume. 
From  Bixschoote  to  Baecelaere  and  down  to  the 
Lys  river. 

But  the  huge  Hun  masses  yet  mounted  more  and 

more, 
Like  a  giant  wave  gathering  to  whelm  the  sweet  shore. 
While  swift  the  exultant  foam  runs  on  before  and  over. 


292  MARGARET  L.    WOODS 

Where  that  foam  was  leaping, 
With  bayonets,  or  with  none. 
The  cooks  and  the  service  men 
Ran  upon  the  Hun. 
The  cooks  and  the  service  men  charged  and  charged 

together 
Moussy's  cuirassiers,  on  foot,  with  spur  and  sabre; 
Helmed  and  shining  fought  they  as  warriors  fought 

of  yore  — 
Till  calm  fell  sinister  as  the  hush  at  the  whirlwind's 

core. 
From  Bixschoote  to  Baecelaere  and  down  to  the 
Lys  river. 

Lo !  the  Emperor  launched  on  us  his  guard  of  old 

renown. 
Stepping  in  parade-march,   as  they  step  through 

Berlin  town, 
On  the  chill  road  to  Gheluveldt,  in  the  dark  before 

the  dawning. 

Heavily  tolled  on  them 
Mortal  mouths  of  guns. 
Gallantly,  gallantly 
Came  the  flower  of  the  Huns. 
Proud  men  they  marched,  like  an  avalanche  on  us 

falling, 
Prouder  men  they  met,   in   the  dark  before  the 
dawning. 


MARGARET  L.    WOODS  293 

Seven  to  one  they  came  against  us  to  shatter  us 

and  drowTi, 
One  to  seven  in  the  woodland  we  fought  them  up  and 

down. 
In  the  sad  November  woodland,  when  all  the  skies 

were  mourning. 

The  long  battle  thundered  till  a  waxing  moon  might 
wane, 

Thrice  they  broke  the  exhausted  line  that  held  them 
on  the  plain, 

And  thrice  like  billows  they  went  back,  from  view- 
less bounds  retiring. 

\Miy  paused  they  and  went  backward, 
With  never  a  foe  before 
Like  a  long  wave  dragging 
Down  a  level  shore 
Its  fierce  reluctant  surges,  that  came  triumphant 

storming 
The  land,  and  powers  invisible  drive  to  its  deep 

returning  ? 
On  the  grey  field  of  Flanders  again  and  yet  again 
The  Huns  beheld  the  Great  Reserves  on  the  old 

battle-plain. 
The  blood-red  field  of  Flanders,  where  all  the  skies 
were  mourning. 


294  MARGARET  L.    WOODS 

The  fury  of  their  marshalled  guns  might  plough 

no  dreadful  lane 
Through  those  Reserves  that  waited  in  the  ambush 

of  the  rain, 
On  the  riven  plain  of  Flanders,  where  hills  of  men 

lay  moaning. 

They  hurled  upon  an  army 
The  bellowing  heart  of  Hell, 
We  saw  but  the  meadows 
Torn  with  their  shot  and  shell. 
We  heard  not  the  march  of  the  succours  that  were 

coming, 
Their  old  forgotten  bugle-calls,  the  fifes  and  the 

drumming, 
But   they   gathered   and   they  gathered   from   the 

graves  where  they  had  lain 
A  hundred  years,  hundreds  of  years,  on  the  old 

battle-plain, 
And  the  young  graves  of  Flanders,  all  fresh  with 
dews  of  mourning. 

Marlborough's  men  and  Wellington's,  the  burghers 

of  Courtrai, 
The   warriors   of  Plantagenet,   King   Louis'   Gants 

glaces  — 
And  the  young,  young  dead  from  Mons  and  the 

Marne  river. 


MARGARET  L.    WOODS  295 

Old  heroic  fighting  men, 
Who  fought  for  chivalry, 
]\Ien  who  died  for  England, 
Mother  of  Liberty. 
In  the  world's  dim  heart,  where  the  waiting  spirits 

slumber. 
Sounded  a  roar  when  the  walls  were  rent  asunder 
That  parted  Earth  from  Hell,  and  summoning  them 

away. 
Tremendous  trumpets  blew,  as  at  the  Judgment 

Day  — 
And  the  dead  came  forth,  each  to  his  former  banner. 

On  the  grim  field  of  Flanders,  the  old  battle  plain. 
Their  armies  held  the  iron  line  round  Ypres  in  the 

rain, 
From  Bixschoote  to  Baecelaere  and  down  to  the 

Lvs  river. 

—  Margaret  L.  Woods. 


296 


KITCHENER 

If  Death  had  questioned  thee, 
"Soldier,  where  would 'st  thou  take. 
The  immitigable  blow  ?  " 
Thou  hadst  answered,  "  Let  it  be 
Where  the  battalions  shake 
And  break  the  entrenched  foe." 

Yet  wert  thou  nobly  starred 
And  destined.     Thou  dost  die 
On  the  grim  English  sea ; 
Thou  goest  to  the  old  tarred 
Great  Captains,  and  shalt  lie 
Pillowed  with  them  eternally. 


And  they  shall  stir  from  their  rest 
Each  in  his  lordly  shroud. 
And  say,  "  'Fore  God,  we  have  room, 
So  are  the  deeps  made  proud. 
Behold  the  glory  on  his  breast. 
Kitchener  of  Khartoum ! " 


X. 


LIEUT.    FRANCIS   BRETT    YOUXG         297 


MARCHING  ON  TANGA 

^Marching  on  Tanga,  marching  the  parched  phiin 
Of  wavering  spcar-grass  by  Pangani  river, 
England  came  to  me  —  me  who  had  always  ta'en 
But  never  given  before  —  England,  the  giver, 
In  a  vision  of  tall  poplar  trees  that  shiver 
On  still  evenings  of  summer,  after  rain, 
By  Slapton  Ley,  where  reed-beds  start  and  quiver 
^\^len  scarce  a  ripple  moves  the  upland  grain. 

Then  I  thanked  God  that  now  I  had  suffered  pain 

And,  as  the  parched  plain,  thirst,  and  lain  awake 

Shivering  all  night  through  till  cold  daybreak : 

In  that  I  count  these  sufferings  my  gain 

And    her    acknowledgment.     Nay,    more,     would 

fain 

Suffer  as  many  more  for  her  sweet  sake. 

—  Francis  Brett  Young. 

With  the  British  Expeditionary  Force,  Marago-Opuni, 
German  East  Africa.    June,  1916. 


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